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SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

VILLA    RUBEIN,  and  other  StorI„ 

THE    ISLAND    PHARISEES 

THE   MAN    OF    PROPERTY 

THE   COUNTRY   HOUSE 

FRATERNITY 

THE    PATRICIAN 

THE   DARK    FLOWER 

THE   FREELAND8 

BEYOND 

five  tales 
saint's  progress 

a  commentary 

A   MOTLEY 

THE   INN    OP   TRANQUILLITY 

THE    LITTLE    MAN,    „d  o.hor  Satire. 

A   SHEAF 

ANOTHER  SHEAP 

plays:   FIRST  SERIES 

«"rf  SeparaMfi 
THE   SILVER   BOX 
JOY 
STRIFE 

plays:   SECOND   SERIES 

and  SepayaUlg 
THE   ELDEST   SON 
THE    LITTLE    DREAM 
JUSTICE 

plays:   THIRD    SERIES 

and  Separately 
THE   FUGITIVE 
THE    PIGEON 
THE    MOB 

A   BIT   o'  LOVE 


MOODS,    SONGS,    AND    DOGGERELS 
MEMORIES.      Illustrated 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


BY 

JOHN   GALSWORTHY 


*'He  hut  usurp' d  his  life' 
— Lear 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1919 


'-'      TN     >-"       .--;,     ,-^ 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT.  1918,  1919,  BY  THE  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  CO. 


(.It.  €       t   (  C 


'         «        «    «    »      . 


'VK. 


■^ 


[y  idAS^ 


^0 

C.   S.  EVANS 


V 


N 


V*^ 


PART  I 


( 


SAINT'S    PROGRESS 


Such  a  day  made  glad  the  heart.  All  the  flags 
of  July  were  waving;  the  sun  and  the  poppies 
flaming;  white  butterflies  spiring  up  and  twining, 
and  the  bees  busy  on  the  snapdragons.  The  hme- 
trees  were  coming  into  flower.  TaU  white  Hlies  in 
the  garden  beds  already  rivalled  the  delphiniums; 
the  York  and  Lancaster  roses  were  full-blown  round 
their  golden  hearts.  There  was  a  gentle  breeze, 
and  a  swish  and  stir  and  hum  rose  and  fell  above 
the  head  of  Edward  Pierson,  coming  back  from  his 
lonely  ramble  over  Tintern  Abbey.  He  had  ar- 
rived at  Kestrel,  his  brother  Robert's  home  on  the 
bank  of  the  Wye  only  that  morning,  having  stayed 
at  Bath  on  the  way  down;  and  now  he  had  got  his 
face  burnt  in  that  parti-coloured  way  peculiar  to 
the  faces  of  those  who  have  been  too  long  in  Lon- 
don. As  he  came  along  the  narrow,  rather  over- 
grown avenue,  the  sound  of  a  waltz  thrummed  out 
on  a  piano  feU  on  his  ears  and  he  smiled,  for  music 
was  the  greatest  passion  he  had.  His  dark  griz- 
zled hair  was  pushed  back  off  his  hot  brow,  which 
he  fanned  with  his  straw  hat.  Though  not  broad, 
that  brow  was  the  broadest  part  of  a  narrow  oval 

3 


4  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

face  whose  length  was  increased  by  a  short,  dark, 
pointed  beard — a  visage  such  as  Vandyk  might 
have  painted,  grave  and  gentle,  but  for  its  bright 
grey  eyes,  cinder-lashed  and  crow's-footed,  and  its 
strange  look  of  not  seeing  what  was  before  it.  He 
walked  quickly,  though  he  was  tired  and  hot;  tall, 
upright,  and  thin,  in  a  grey  parsonical  suit,  on  whose 
black  kerseymere  vest  a  Httle  gold  cross  dangled. 

Above  his  brother's  house,  whose  sloping  garden 
ran  down  to  the  railway  line  and  river,  a  large  room 
had  been  built  out  apart.  Pierson  stood  where  the 
avenue  forked,  enjoying  the  sound  of  the  waltz, 
and  the  cool  whipping  of  the  breeze  in  the  syca- 
mores and  birches.  A  man  of  fifty,  with  a  sense  of 
beauty,  born  and  bred  in  the  country,  suffers  fear- 
fully from  nostalgia  during  a  long  unbroken  spell 
of  London;  so  that  his  afternoon  in  the  old  Abbey 
had  been  almost  holy.  He  had  let  his  senses  sink 
into  the  sunlit  greenery  of  the  towering  woods  op- 
posite; he  had  watched  the  spiders  and  the  little 
shining  beetles,  the  flycatchers,  and  sparrows  in 
the  ivy;  touched  the  mosses  and  the  lichens;  looked 
the  speedwells  in  the  eye;  dreamed  of  he  knew  not 
what.  A  hawk  had  been  wheeling  up  there  above 
the  woods,  and  he  had  been  up  there  with  it  in  the 
blue.  He  had  taken  a  real  spiritual  bath,  and 
washed  the  dusty  fret  of  London  off  his  soul. 

For  a  year  he  had  been  working  his  parish  single- 
handed — no  joke — for  his  curate  had  gone  for  a 
chaplain;  and  this  was  his  first  real  holiday  since 
the  war  began,  two  years  ago;   his  first  visit,  too, 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  5 

to  his  brother's  home.  He  looked  down  at  the 
garden,  and  up  at  the  trees  of  the  avenue.  Cer- 
tainly Bob  had  found  a  perfect  retreat  after  his 
quarter  of  a  century  in  Ceylon.  Dear  old  Bob ! 
And  he  smiled  at  the  thought  of  his  elder  brother, 
whose  burnt  face  and  fierce  grey  whiskers  some- 
what recalled  a  Bengal  tiger;  the  kindest  fellow 
though  that  ever  breathed,  whose  outbreaks  of 
temper  were  the  greatest  frauds !  Yes,  he  had 
found  a  perfect  home  for  Thirza  and  himself.  And 
Edward  Pierson  sighed.  He  too  had  once  had  a 
perfect  home,  a  perfect  wife;  the  wound  of  whose 
death,  fifteen  years  ago,  still  bled  a  little  in  his 
heart.  Their  two  daughters,  Gratian  and  Noel, 
had  not  Haken  after'  her;  Gratian  was  like  his  own 
mother,  and  Noel,  with  her  fair  hair  and  big  grey 
eyes,  always  reminded  him  of  his  cousin  Leila,  who 
— poor  thing ! — had  made  that  sad  mess  of  her  life, 
and  now,  he  had  heard,  was  singing  for  a  Hving,  in 
South  Africa.  Ah !  What  a  pretty  girl  she  had 
been! 

Dra^^m  by  that  eternal  waltz  tune  he  reached  the 
doorway  of  the  music-room.  A  chintz  curtain  hung 
there,  but  the  sound  of  feet  slipping  on  polished 
boards  came  out,  and  he  saw  his  daughter  Noel 
waltzing  slowly  in  the  arms  of  a  young  officer  in 
khaki.  Round  and  round  they  went,  circling,  back- 
ing, moving  sideways  with  curious  steps  which 
seemed  to  have  come  in  recently,  for  he  did  not 
recognise  them.  At  the  piano  sat  his  niece  Eve, 
with  a  teasing  smile  on  her  rosy  face.     But  it  was 


6  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

at  his  young  daughter  that  Edward  Pierson  looked. 
Her  eyes  were  half-closed,  her  cheeks  rather  pale, 
and  her  fair  hair,  cut  quite  short,  curled  into  her 
slim  round  neck.  Quite  cool  she  seemed,  though 
the  young  man  in  whose  arms  she  was  ghding  along 
looked  fiery  hot;  a  handsome  boy,  with  blue  eyes 
and  a  little  golden  down  on  the  upper  Hp  of  his 
sunny  red-cheeked  face.  Edward  Pierson  thought: 
*Nice  couple !'  And  had  a  moment's  vision  of  him- 
self and  Leila,  dancing  at  that  long-ago  Cambridge 
May  Week — on  the  very  day  of  her  seventeenth 
birthday,  he  remembered,  so  that  she  must  have 
been  a  year  younger  than  Nollie  was  now!  Were 
those  two  never  going  to  stop  ?  This  must  be  the 
young  man  she  had  talked  of  in  her  letters  during 
the  last  three  weeks. 

Drawing  the  curtain  aside,  he  passed  into  view 
of  those  within,  and  said: 

"Aren't  you  very  hot,  Nollie?" 

She  blew  him  a  kiss,  and  shook  her  head;  the 
young  man  looked  startled  and  self-conscious,  and 
Eve  called  out: 

"It's  a  bet.  Uncle.  They've  got  to  dance  me 
down." 

Pierson  said  mildly: 

"Abet?    My  dears!" 

Noel  murmured  over  her  shoulder: 

"It's  all  right.  Daddy!"  And  the  young  man 
gasped : 

"She's  bet  us  one  of  her  puppies  against  one  of 
mine,  sir!" 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  7 

Pierson  sat  down,  a  little  hypnotized  by  the  sleepy 
strumming,  the  slow  giddy  movement  of  the  dancers, 
and  those  half-closed  swimming  eyes  of  his  young 
daughter,  looking  at  him  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
went  by.  He  sat  with  a  smile  on  his  lips.  Nollie 
was  growing  up!  Now  that  Gratian  was  married, 
she  had  become  a  great  responsibility.  If  only  his 
dear  wife  had  lived!  The  smile  faded  from  his 
lips;  he  looked  suddenly  very  tired.  The  struggle, 
physical  and  spiritual,  he  had  been  through,  to  do 
without  his  wife  these  fifteen  years,  sometimes 
weighed  him  almost  to  the  ground.  Most  men 
would  have  married  again,  but  he  had  always  felt 
it  would  be  sacrilege.  Real  imions  were  for  ever, 
even  though  the  Church  permitted  remarriage. 

He  watched  his  young  daughter  now  with  a 
quaint  mixture  of  aesthetic  pleasure  and  fatherly 
perplexity.  To  go  on  dancing  indefinitely  with 
one  young  man — could  that  possibly  be  good  for 
her?  But  they  looked  very  happy;  and  there  was 
so  much  in  young  creatures  that  he  did  not  un- 
derstand, especially  in  Noel;  so  affectionate,  and 
dreamy,  yet  sometimes  seeming  possessed  of  a 
little  dei'il.  Edward  Pierson  was  naif;  he  attrib- 
uted those  outbursts  of  demonic  possession  to  the 
loss  of  her  mother  when  she  was  such  a  mite;  Gra- 
tian, but  two  years  older,  had  never  taken  a  mother's 
place — how  could  she?  That  had  been  left  to  him- 
self, and  he  was  always  more  or  less  conscious  of 
failure. 

He  sat  there  looking  up  at  her  with  a  sort  of 


8  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

whimsical  distress.  And,  suddenly,  in  that  dainty 
voice  of  hers,  which  seemed  to  spurn  each  word  a 
little,  she  said: 

"I'm  going  to  stop!"  and,  sitting  down  beside 
him,  took  up  his  hat  to  fan  herself. 

Eve  struck  a  triumphant  chord.  "Hurrah !  I've 
won!" 

The  young  man  muttered: 

"I  say,  Noel,  we  weren't  half  done !" 

"I  know;  but  Daddy  was  getting  bored,  weren't 
you,  dear?    This  is  Cyril  Morland," 

Pierson  shook  the  young  man's  hand. 

"Daddy,  your  nose  is  burnt!" 

"My  dear;  I  know.'* 

"I  can  give  you  some  white  stuff  for  it.  You 
have  to  sleep  with  it  on  all  night.  Uncle  and 
Auntie  both  use  it.'* 

"NoUie!" 

"Well,  Eve  says  so.  If  you're  going  to  bathe, 
Cyril,  look  out  for  that  current!" 

The  young  man,  gazing  at  her  with  undisguised 
adoration,  muttered: 

"Rather!"  and  went  out. 

Noel's  eyes  lingered  after  him;  and  it  was  Eve 
who  broke  the  silence. 

"If  you're  going  to  have  a  bath  before  tea,  Nol- 
lie,  you'd  better  hurry  up." 

"All  right;  I'm  going.  Was  it  jolly  in  the 
Abbey,  Daddy?" 

"Lovely;  like  a  great  piece  of  music." 

"Daddy    always    puts    everything    into    music. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  9 

You  ought  to  see  it  by  moonlight;  it's  gorgeous 
then.  All  right,  Eve;  I'm  coming."  But  she  did 
not  get  up,  and  when  Eve  was  gone,  cuddled  her 
arm  through  her  father's,  and  murmured: 

"What  d'you  think  of  Cyril?" 

"My  dear,  how  can  I  tell  yet?  He  seems  a  nice- 
looking  young  man." 

"All  right,  Daddy;  don't  strain  yourself.  It's 
jolly  down  here,  isn't  it?"  She  got  up,  stretched 
herself  a  little,  and  moved  awa}^,  looking  like  a 
very  tall  child,  with  her  short  hair  curling  in  round 
her  head, 

Pierson,  watching  her  vanish  past  the  curtain, 
thought:  "What  a  lovely  thing  she  is!"  And  he 
got  up  too,  but  instead  of  following,  went  to  the 
piano,  and  began  to  play  Mendelssohn's  Prelude 
and  Fugue  in  E  minor.  He  had  a  fine  touch,  and 
played  with  a  sort  of  dreamy  passion,  losing  himself 
completely.  It  was  his  way  out  of  perplexities,  re- 
grets, and  longings;  a  way  which  never  quite  failed 
him. 

Once  on  a  time,  at  Cambridge,  he  had  intended 
to  take  up  music  as  a  profession,  and  why  he  had 
not  done  so  he  never  to  this  day  quite  understood. 
Family  tradition  had  destined  him  for  Holy  Orders, 
and  a  certain  emotional  Church  revival  of  that  day 
had  caught  him  in  its  stream.  He  had  always  had 
private  means,  and  those  early  years  before  he  mar- 
ried had  passed  happily  in  an  East-End  parish.  To 
have  not  only  opportunity  but  power  to  help  in  the 
lives  of  the  poor  had  been  fascinating;  simple  him- 


lo  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

seK,  the  simple  folk  of  his  parish  had  taken  hold  of 
his  heart.  When,  however,  he  fell  in  love  and  mar- 
ried Agnes  Heriot,  he  was  given  a  parish  of  his 
own  on  the  borders  of  East  and  West,  and  there  he 
had  been  ever  since,  even  after  her  death  had 
nearly  killed  him.  It  was  better  to  go  on  where 
w^ork  and  all  reminded  him  of  one  whom  he  had  re- 
solved never  to  forget  in  other  ties.  But  he  was 
often  conscious  that  his  work  had  not  the  zest  it 
used  to  have  in  her  day,  or  even  before  her  day. 
It  may  well  be  doubted  whether  he,  who  had  been 
in  Holy  Orders  twenty-six  years,  quite  knew  now 
what  he  believed.  Ever>'thing  had  become  set, 
circumscribed,  and  fixed,  by  thousands  of  his  own 
utterances;  to  have  taken  fresh  stock  of  his  faith, 
to  have  gone  deep  into  its  roots,  would  have  been 
like  taking  up  the  foundations  of  a  still-standing 
house.  Some  men  naturally  root  themselves  in 
the  inexpressible — and  one  formula  for  the  inex- 
pressible is  much  the  same  as  another;  but  Edward 
Pierson,  gently  dogmatic,  undoubtedly  preferred 
his  High- Church  statement  of  the  inexpressible  to 
that  of,  say,  the  Zoroastrians.  The  subtleties  of 
change,  the  modifications  by  science,  ever  impinging 
on  even  the  most  inspired  dogmas,  left  little  sense 
of  inconsistency  or  treason  on  his  soul.  Sensitive, 
charitable,  and  only  combative  deep  down,  he  in- 
stinctively avoided  discussion  on  matters  where  he 
might  hurt  others  or  they  hurt  him.  And,  since 
explanation  was  the  last  thing  which  could  be  ex- 
pected of  one  who  did  not  base  himself  on  Reason, 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  il 

he  had  found  but  scant  occasion  ever  to  examine 
anything.  Just  as  in  the  old  Abbey  he  had  soared 
off  into  the  infinite  with  the  hawk,  the  beetles,  and 
the  grasses,  so  now,  at  the  piano,  by  these  sounds  of 
his  own  making,  he  was  caught  away  again  into 
emotionalism,  without  at  all  realising  that  he  was 
in  one  of  his  most  religious  moods.  A  voice  sur- 
prised him: 

"Aren't  you  coming  to  tea,  Edward?" 
The  woman  standing  just  behind  him,  in  a  lUac- 
coloured  gown,  had  one  of  those  faces  which  remain 
innocent  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  in  spite  of  the 
complete  knowledge  of  Ufe  which  appertains  to 
mothers.  In  days  of  suffering  and  anxiety,  like 
these  of  the  great  war,  Thirza  Pierscn  was  a  valua- 
ble person.  Without  ever  expressing  an  opinion  on 
cosmic  matters,  she  reconfirmed  certain  cosmic 
truths,  such  as  that  though  the  whole  world  was  at 
war,  there  was  such  a  thing  as  peace;  that  though 
all  the  sons  of  mothers  were  being  killed,  there  re- 
mained such  a  thing  as  motherhood;  that  while 
everybody  was  living  for  the  future,  the  present 
stiU  existed,  and  was  good.  Her  inexpugnable 
tranquillity,  unsentimental  tenderness,  matter-of- 
fact  busyness,  together  with  the  dew  in  her  eyes, 
had  been  proof  against  twenty-three  years  of  life 
on  a  tea-plantation  in  the  hot  part  of  Ceylon; 
against  Bob  Pierson;  against  the  anxiety  of  having 
two  sons  at  the  front,  and  the  confidences  of  nearly 
every  one  she  came  across.  Nothing  disturbed  her. 
She  was  like  a  painting  of  'Goodness'  by  an  Old 


12  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Master,  restored  by  Kate  Greenaway.  Slie  never 
went  to  meet  life,  but  when  it  came,  made  the  best 
of  iL  This  was  her  secret,  and  Pierson  always  felt 
rested  by  his  sister-in-law's  presence. 

He  rose  obediently,  and  moved  by  her  side,  among 
flower-beds,  over  the  lawn,  towards  the  big  tree 
down  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 

"How  d'you  think  Noel  is  looking,  Edward?" 

"Very  pretty,  too  pretty.  That  yoimg  man, 
Thirza?" 

"Yes;  I'm  afraid  he's  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  her." 

At  the  dismayed  somid  he  uttered,  she  slij^ed 
her  soft  round  arm  within  his.  "He's  going  to  che 
front  soon,  poor  boy ! " 

"Have  they  talked  to  you?" 

"He  has.    Nollie  hasn't,  yet" 

"Nollie  is  a  queer  child,  Thirza." 

"Nollie  is  a  darling,  but  rather  a  desperate  char- 
acter, Edward." 

Pierson  sighed. 

In  a  swing,  under  the  tree,  where  the  tea-things 
were  set  out,  the  'rather  desperate  character'  was 
swaying.  "What  a  picture  she  is!"  he  said,  and 
sighed  again. 

The  voice  of  his  brother  came  to  them,  high  and 
steamy,  as  though  corrupted  by  the  climate  of 
Ceylon: 

"You  incorrigible  dreamy  chap,  Ted!  We've 
eaten  ail  the  raspberries.  Eve,  give  him  some  jam ; 
he  must  be  dead !    Phew !  the  heat !    Come  on,  my 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  13 

dear,  and  pour  out  his  tea.  Hallo,  Cyril!  Had  a 
good  bathe  ?  By  George,  wish  my  head  was  wet ! 
Squattez-vous  down  over  there,  by  NoUie;  she'll 
swing,  and  keep  the  flies  off  you." 

"If  you'll  give  me  a  cigarette.  Uncle  Bob " 

"What !    Your  father  doesn't " 

^Just  for  the  flies.    You  don't  mind,  Daddy?" 
'Not  if  it's  necessary,  my  dear." 

Noel  smiled,  showing  her  upper  teeth,  and  her 
eyes  seemed  to  swim  imder  their  long  lashes. 

"It  isn't  necessary,  but  it's  nice." 

"Ah,  ha!"  said  Bob  Pierson.  "Here  you  are, 
Nollie!" 

But  Noel  shook  her  head.  At  that  moment  she 
struck  her  father  as  startlingly  grown-up.  She  was 
so  composed,  swaying  there  above  that  young  man 
at  her  feet,  the  impudence  of  whose  sunny  face 
seemed  smothered  in  adoration.  "No  longer  a 
chfld !"  he  thought.    "Dear  Nollie !" 


n 

i§ 

Awakened  by  that  daily  cruelty,  the  advent  of 
hot  water,  Edward  Pierson  lay  in  his  chintz-cur- 
tained room,  fancying  himself  back  in  London. 
The  humming  of  a  wild  bee  hunting  honey  from  the 
bowl  of  flowers  on  the  window-sill,  and  the  scent  of 
sweetbrier,  shattered  that  illusion.  He  got  up,  drew 
the  curtain,  and,  kneeling  on  the  window-seat  in 
the  bay  of  the  window,  thrust  his  head  out  into 
the  morning  and  took  a  deep  breath.  The  air  was 
intoxicatingly  sweet.  Haze  clung  about  the  river 
and  the  woods  beyond;  the  lawn  sparkled  with  dew, 
and  two  wagtails  strutted  there  in  the  early  sun- 
shine. "Thank  God  for  this  earth!"  he  thought. 
"It  really  is  too  lovely!  Those  poor  boys  at  the 
front!"  And  kneeling  with  his  elbows  on  the  sill, 
he  began  to  say  his  prayers.  The  same  feeling  which 
made  him  beautify  his  church  so  far  as  he  was  able, 
use  vestments,  good  music,  and  incense,  filled  him 
now.  God  was  in  the  loveliness  of  His  world,  as 
well  as  in  His  churches.  One  could  worship  Him 
in  a  grove  of  beech-trees,  in  a  beautiful  garden,  on 
a  high  hill,  by  the  banks  of  a  bright  river.  God  was 
in  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  and  the  hum  of  a  bee, 
in  the  dew  on  the  grass,  and  the  scent  of  flowers; 

14 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  15 

God  was  in  everything !  And  he  added  to  his  usual 
prayer  this  whisper:  ''I  give  Thee  thanks  for  my 
senses,  0  Lord.  In  all  of  us,  keep  them  bright,  and 
grateful  for  loveliness."  Then,  raising  his  head, 
he  remained  motionless,  prey  to  a  sort  of  happy 
yearning  which  was  very  near  to  melancholy. 
Great  beauty  ever  had  that  effect  on  him.  One 
could  capture  so  little  of  it — could  never  enjoy  it 
enough !  Who  was  it  had  said  not  long  ago:  ''Love 
of  beauty  is  really  only  the  sex  instinct,  which 
nothing  but  complete  union  satisfies."  Ah!  yes, 
George — Gratian's  husband.  George  Laird !  And 
a  little  frown  came  between  his  brows,  as  though 
at  some  thorn  in  the  flesh.  Poor  George !  But  then, ' 
all  doctors  were  materialists  at  heart — splendid 
fellows,  though;  a  fine  fellow,  George,  working  him- 
self to  death  out  there  in  France.  One  must  not 
take  them  too  seriously.  He  plucked  a  bit  of  sweet- 
brier  and  put  it  to  his  nose,  which  still  retained  the 
shine  of  that  bleaching  ointment  Noel  had  insisted 
on  his  using.  The  sweet  smeU  of  those  little  rough 
leaves  stirred  up  an  acute  aching.  He  dropped 
them,  and  drew  back.  No  longings,  no  melancholy; 
one  ought  to  be  down  and  out,  this  beautiful  morn- 
ing! 

It  was  Sunday;  but  he  had  not  to  take  three 
Services  and  preach  at  least  one  sermon;  this  day 
of  rest  was  really  to  be  his  own,  for  once.  It  was 
almost  disconcerting;  he  had  so  long  felt  like  the 
cab  horse  who  could  not  be  taken  out  of  the  shafts 
lest  he  should  fall  do\\Ti.     He  dressed  with  extraor- 


i6  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

dinary  deliberation,  and  had  not  quite  finished  when 
there  came  a  knock  on  his  door,  and  Noel's  voice 
said:  ''Can  I  come  in,  Daddy?" 

In  her  flax-blue  frock,  with  a  Gloire  de  Dijon  rose 
pinned  where  it  met  on  her  faintly  browned  neck, 
she  seepied  to  her  father  a  perfect  vision  of  fresh- 
ness. 

"Here's  a  letter  from  Gratian;  George  has  been 
sent  home  ill,  and  he's  gone  to  our  house.  She's 
got  leave  from  her  hospital  to  come  home  and  nurse 
him." 

Pierson  read  the  letter.    "Poor  George!** 

"When  are  you  going  to  let  me  be  a  nurse, 
Daddy?" 

"We  must  wait  till  you're  eighteen,  Nollie." 

"I  could  easily  say  I  was.  It's  only  a  month; 
and  I  look  much  more." 

Pierson  smiled. 

"Don't  I?" 

"You  might  be  anything  from  fifteen  to  twenty- 
five,  my  dear,  according  as  you  behave." 

"I  want  to  go  out  as  near  the  front  as  possible.'* 

Her  head  was  poised  so  that  the  sunlight  framed 
her  face,  which  was  rather  broad — the  brow  rather 
too  broad — ^under  the  waving  Hght-brown  hair,  the 
nose  short  and  indeterminate;  cheeks  still  round 
from  youth,  almost  waxen-pale,  and  faintly  hol- 
lowed under  the  eyes.  It  was  her  lips,  dainty  yet 
loving,  and  above  all  her  grey  eyes,  big  and  dreamily 
alive,  which  made  her  a  swan.  He  could  not  imagine 
her  in  nurse's  garb. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  17 


^This  is  new,  isn't  it,  NolHe?" 
'Cyril  Moriand's  sisters  are  both  out;   and  he'll 
be  going  soon.     Everybody  goes." 

"Gratian  hasn't  got  out  yet.  It  takes  a  long 
time  to  get  trained." 

"I  know;  all  the  more  reason  to  begin." 

She  got  up,  looked  at  him,  looked  at  her  hands, 
seemed  about  to  speak,  but  did  not.  A  little  col- 
our had  come  into  her  cheeks.  Then,  obviously 
making  conversation,  she  asked: 

"Are  you  going  to  church?  It's  worth  anything 
to  hear  Uncle  Bob  read  the  Lessons,  especially  when 
he  loses  his  place.  No;  you're  not  to  put  on  your 
long  coat  till  just  before  church  time.  I  won't 
have  it!" 

Obediently  Pierson  resigned  his  long  coat. 

"Now,  you  see,  you  can  have  my  rose.  Your 
nose  is  better!"  She  kissed  his  nose,  and  trans- 
ferred her  rose  to  the  buttonhole  of  his  short  coat. 
"That's  all.  Come  along!"  And  with  her  arm 
through  his,  they  went  down.  But  he  knew  she 
had  come  to  say  something  which  she  had  not  said. 


Bob  Pierson,  in  virtue  of  greater  wealth  than  the 
rest  of  the  congregation,  always  read  the  Lessons, 
or  coughed  them,  as  it  were,  in  the  high  steamy 
voice,  his  breathing  never  adjusted  to  the  length 
of  any  period.  The  congregation,  accustomed, 
heard  nothing  pecuHar;  he  was  the  necessary  gen- 


i8  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

try  with  the  necessary  finger  in  the  pie.  It  was  his 
own  family  whom  he  perturbed.  In  the  second 
row,  Noel,  staring  solemnly  at  the  profile  of  her 
father  in  the  front  row,  was  thinking:  'Poor  Daddy ! 
His  eyes  look  as  if  they  were  coming  out.  Oh, 
Daddy !  Smile !  or  it'll  hurt  you  ! '  Young  Mor- 
land  beside  her,  rigid  in  his  tunic,  was  thinking: 
'She  isn't  thinking  of  me!'  And  just  then  her 
little  finger  crooked  into  his.  Edward  Pierson  was 
thinking:  'Oh!  My  dear  old  Bob!  Oh!'  And, 
beside  him  Thirza  thought :  '  Poor  dear  Ted !  how 
nice  for  him  to  be  having  a  complete  rest !  I  must 
make  him  eat — he's  so  thin ! '  And  Eve  was  think- 
ing: 'Oh,  Father!  Mercy!'  But  Bob  Pierson  was 
thinking :  '  Cheer  oh !  Only  another  three  verses ! ' 
Noel's  little  finger  unhooked  itself,  but  her  eyes 
stole  round  to  young  Morland's  eyes,  and  there  was 
a  light  in  them  which  lingered  through  the  sing- 
ing and  the  prayers.  At  last,  in  the  reverential  rus- 
tle of  the  settling  congregation,  a  surpHced  figure 
mounted  the  pulpit. 

"I  come  not  to  bring  Peace,  but  a  sword." 
Pierson  looked  up.  He  felt  deep  restfulness. 
There  was  a  pleasant  light  in  this  church;  the  hum 
of  a  country  bluebottle  made  all  the  difference  to 
the  quality  of  silence !  No  critical  thought  stirred 
within  him,  nor  any  excitement.  He  was  thinking: 
'Now  I  shall  hear  something  for  my  good;  a  fine 
J^xt;  when  did  I  preach  from  it  last?'  Turned  a 
little  away  from  the  others,  he  saw  nothing  but  the 
preacher's  homely  face  up  there  above  the  carved 


/ 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  19 

oak;  it  was  so  long  since  he  had  been  preached  to, 
so  long  since  he  had  had  a  rest !  The  words  came 
forth,  dropped  on  his  forehead,  penetrated,  met 
something  which  absorbed  them,  and  disappeared. 
*  A  good  plain  sermon ! '  he  thought.  '  I  suppose  I'm 
stale;  I  don't  seem — '  "  Let  us  not,  dear  breth- 
ren," droned  the  preacher's  earnest  voice,  "think 
that  our  dear  Lord,  in  saying  that  He  brought  a 
sword,  referred  to  a  physical  sword.  It  was  the 
sword  of  the  spirit  to  which  He  was  undoubtedly 
referring,  that  bright  sword  of  the  spirit  which  in 
aU  ages  has  cleaved  its  way  through  the  fetters 
imposed  on  men  themselves  by  their  own  desires,  im- 
posed by  men  on  other  men  in  gratification  of  their 
ambitions,  as  we  have  had  so  striking  an  example  in 
the  invasion  by  our  cruel  enemies  of  a  little  neigh- 
bouring country  which  had  done  them  no  harm. 
Dear  brethren,  we  may  aU  bring  swords."  Pierson's 
chin  jerked;  he  raised  his  hand  quickly  and  passed 
it  over  his  face.  'All  bring  swords,'  he  thought, 
'swords — I  wasn't  asleep — surely!'  "But  let  us  be 
sure  that  our  swords  are  bright;  bright  with  hope, 
and  bright  with  faith,  that  we  may  see  them  flash- 
ing among  the  carnal  desires  of  this  mortal  life, 
car\dng  a  path  for  us  towards  that  heavenly  king- 
dom where  alone  is  peace,  perfect  peace.  Let  us 
pray." 

Pierson  did  not  shut  his  eyes;  he  opened  them  as 
he  fell  on  his  knees.  In  the  seat  behind,  Noel  and 
young  Morland  had  also  fallen  on  their  knees,  their 
faces  covered  each  with  a  single  hand;  but  her  left 


20  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

hand  and  his  right  hung  at  their  sides.  Thcj  prayed 
a  little  longer  than  any  others  and,  on  rising,  sang 
the  hymn  a  little  louder. 

3§ 

No  paper  came  on  Sundays — ^not  even  the  local 
paper,  which  had  so  long  and  so  nobly  done  its  bit 
with  head-lines  to  win  the  war.  No  news  whatever 
came,  of  men  blown  up,  to  enliven  the  hush  of  the 
hot  July  afternoon,  or  the  sense  of  drugging  which 
followed  Aunt  Thirza's  Sunday  lunch.  Some  slept, 
some  thought  they  were  awake ;  but  Noel  and  yoxmg 
Morland  walked  upward  through  the  woods  towards 
a  high  common  of  heath  and  furze,  crowned  by  what 
was  known  as  Kestrel  rocks.  Between  these  two 
young  people  no  actual  word  of  love  had  yet  been 
spoken.  Their  lovering  had  advanced  by  glance 
and  touch  alone. 

Young  Morland  was  a  school  and  college  friend 
of  the  two  Pierson  boys  now  at  the  front.  He  had 
no  home  of  his  own,  for  his  parents  were  dead;  and 
this  was  not  his  first  visit  to  Kestrel.  Arriving 
three  weeks  ago,  for  his  final  leave  before  he  should 
go  out,  he  had  found  a  girl  with  short  hair  sitting 
in  a  httle  wagonette  outside  the  station,  and  had 
known  his  fate  at  once.  But  who  knows  when  Noel 
fell  in  love?  She  was — one  supposes — ^just  ready 
for  that  sensation.  For  the  last  two  years  she  had 
been  at  one  of  those  high-class  finishing  establish- 
ments where,  in  spite  of  the  healthy  curriculum, 
perhaps  because  of  it,  there  is  ever  an  undercurrent 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  2i 

of  interest  in  the  opposing  sex;  and  not  even  the 
gravest  e£forts  to  eUminate  instinct  are  quite  suc- 
cessful. And  did  not  the  disappearance  of  every 
young  male  thing  into  the  maw  of  the  military  ma- 
chine put  a  premium  on  instinct?  The  thoughts 
of  Noel  and  her  school  companions  were  turned, 
perforce,  to  that  which,  in  pre-war  freedom  of  op- 
portunity they  could  afford  to  regard  as  of  secon- 
dary interest.  Love  and  Marriage  and  Motherhood, 
fixed  as  the  lot  of  women  by  the  countless  ages, 
were  threatened  for  these  young  creatures.  Little 
wonder  that  they  talked  of  them,  pursued  what  they 
instinctively  felt  to  be  receding. 

When  yoimg  Morland  showed,  by  following  her 
about  with  his  eyes,  what  was  happening  to  him, 
she  was  pleased.  From  being  pleased,  she  became 
a  Uttle  excited;  from  being  excited  she  became 
dreamy.  Then,  about  a  week  before  her  father's 
arrival,  she  secretly  began  to  follow  the  young  man 
about  with  her  eyes;  became  capricious  too,  and  a 
Uttle  cruel.  If  there  had  been  another  young  man 
to  favour— but  there  was  not;  and  she  favoured 
Uncle  Bob's  red  setter.  Cyril  Morland  grew  des- 
perate- During  those  three  days  the  little  demon 
her  father  dreaded  certainly  possessed  her.  And 
then,  one  evening,  while  they  walked  back  together 
from  the  hay-fields,  she  had  given  him  a  sidelong 
glance;  and  he  had  gasped  out:  "Oh!  Noel,  what 
have  I  done?"  She  caught  his  limp  hand,  and 
gave  it  a  quick  squeeze.  What  a  change!  What 
bUssful  alteration  ever  since !  .  .  . 


22  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Through  the  wood  young  Morland  mounted 
silently,  screwing  himself  up  to  put  things  to  the 
touch.  Noel  too  mounted  silently,  thinking:  'I 
will  kiss  him  if  he  kisses  me ! '  Eagerness,  and  a 
sort  of  languor,  were  running  in  her  veins;  she  did 
not  look  at  him  from  under  her  shady  hat.  Sunlight 
poured  down  through  every  chink  in  the  foHage; 
made  the  greenness  of  the  steep  wood  marvellously 
vivid  and  aHve;  flashed  on  beech  leaves,  ash  leaves, 
birch  leaves;  fell  on  the  ground  in  httle  runlets; 
painted  bright  patches  on  trunks  and  grass,  the 
beech  mast,  the  ferns;  butterflies  chased  each  other 
in  that  sunlight,  and  myriads  of  ants  and  gnats  and 
flies  seemed  possessed  by  a  frenzy  of  life.  The 
whole  wood  seemed  possessed,  as  if  the  sunshine 
were  a  happy  Being  which  had  come  to  dwell  therein. 
At  a  half-way  spot,  where  the  trees  opened  and  they 
could  see,  far  below  them,  the  gleam  of  the  river, 
she  sat  down  on  the  bole  of  a  beech-tree,  and  young 
Morland  stood  looking  at  her.  Why  should  one 
face  and  not  another,  this  voice  and  not  that,  make 
a  heart  beat;  why  should  a  touch  from  one  hand 
awaken  rapture,  and  a  touch  from  another  awaken 
nothing?  He  knelt  down  and  pressed  his  lips  to 
her  foot.  Her  eyes  grew  very  bright;  but  she  got 
up  and  ran  on — she  had  not  expected  him  to  kiss 
her  foot.  She  heard  him  hurrying  after  her,  and 
stopped,  leaning  against  a  birch  trunk.  He  rushed 
to  her,  and,  without  a  word  spoken,  his  lips  were 
on  her  Hps.  The  moment  in  hfe,  which  no  words 
can  render,  had  come  for  them.     They  had  found 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  23 

their  enchanted  spot,  and  they  moved  no  further, 
but  sat  with  their  arms  round  each  other,  while  the 
happy  Being  of  the  wood  watched.  A  marvellous 
speeder-up  of  Love  is  War.  What  might  have 
taken  six  months,  was  thus  accomplished  in  three 
weeks. 

A  short  hour  passed,  then  Noel  said: 

"I  must  tell  Daddy,  Cyril.  I  meant  to  tell  him 
something  this  morning,  only  I  thought  I'd  better 
wait,  in  case  you  didn't." 

Morland  answered:  "Oh,  Noel!"  It  was  the 
staple  of  his  conversation  while  they  sat  there. 

Again  a  short  hour  passed,  and  Morland  said: 

"I  shall  go  off  my  chump  if  we're  not  married  be- 
fore I  go  out." 

Noel  tightened  her  clutch  on  his  hand. 

"How  long  does  it  take?" 

"No  time,  if  we  hurry  up.  I've  got  six  days  be- 
fore I  rejoin,  and  perhaps  the  Chief  will  give  me 
another  week,  if  I  tell  him." 

"Poor  Daddy!    Kiss  me  again;  a  long  one." 

When  the  long  one  was  over,  she  said: 

"Then  I  can  come  and  be  near  you  till  you  go 
out?    Oh,  Cyril!" 

"Oh,  Noel!" 

"Perhaps  you  won't  go  so  soon.  Don't  go  if  you 
can  help  it!" 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,  darHng;  but  I  shan't  be 
able." 

"No,  of  course  not;  I  know." 

Young  Morland  clutched  his  hair.     "Everyone's 


24  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

in  the  same  boat,  but  it  can't  last  for  ever;  and  now 
we're  engaged  we  can  be  together  all  the  time  till  I've 
got  the  Hcence  or  whatever  it  is.    And  then !" 

"Daddy  won't  like  us  not  being  married  in  a 
church;  but  I  don't  care!" 

Looking  down  at  her  closed  eyes,  and  their  lashes 
resting  on  her  cheeks,  young  Morland  thought: 
*My  God !    I'm  m  heaven !' 

Another  short  hour  passed  before  she  freed  her- 
self. 

"We  must  go,  Cyril.  Kiss  me  once  more;  ever 
such  a  long  one!" 

It  was  nearly  dinner-time,  and  they  ran  down. 

4§ 

Edward  Pierson,  returning  from  the  Evening 
Service,  where  he  had  read  the  Lessons,  saw  them 
in  the  distance,  and  compressed  his  lips.  Their  long 
absence  had  vexed  him.  What  ought  he  to  do? 
In  the  presence  of  Love's  young  dream,  he  felt 
strange  and  helpless.  That  night,  when  he  opened 
the  door  of  his  room,  he  saw  Noel  on  the  window- 
seat,  in  her  dressing-gown,  with  the  moonlight 
streaming  in  on  her. 

"Don't  hght  up.  Daddy;  I've  got  something  to 
say." 

She  took  hold  of  the  little  gold  cross  on  his  vest, 
and  turned  it  over. 

"I'm  engaged  to  Cyril;  we  want  to  be  married 
tliis  week." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  25 

It  was  exactly  as  if  someone  had  punched  him  in 
the  ribs;  and  at  the  sound  he  made  she  hurried  on: 

"You  see,  we  must  be;  he  may  be  going  out  any 
day." 

In  the  midst  of  his  aching  consternation,  he  ad- 
mitted a  kind  of  reason  in  her  words.    But  he  said : 

"My  dear,  you're  only  a  child.  Marriage  is  the 
most  serious  thing  in  Hfe;  you've  only  known  him 
three  weeks." 

"I  know  all  that,  Daddy — "  her  voice  sounded  so 
ridiculously  calm;  "but  we  can't  afford  to  wait. 
He  might  never  come  back,  you  see,  and  then  I 
should  have  missed  him.'* 

"But,  Noel,  suppose  he  never  did  come  back;  it 
would  only  be  much  worse  for  you." 

She  dropped  the  little  cross,  and  took  hold  of  his 
hand,  pressing  it  against  her  heart.  But  still  her 
voice  was  calm: 

"No;  much  better.  Daddy;  you  think  I  don't 
know  my  own  feehngs,  but  I  do." 

The  man  in  Pierson  softened;  the  priest  hardened. 

"Nollie,  true  marriage  is  the  union  of  souls;  and 
for  that,  time  is  wanted.  Time  to  know  that  you 
feel  and  think  the  same,  and  love  the  same  things." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  we  do." 

"You  can't  tell  that,  my  dear;  no  one  could  in 
three  weeks." 

"But  these  aren't  ordinary  times,  are  they? 
People  have  to  do  things  in  a  hurry.  Oh,  Daddy ! 
1  Be  an  angel !  Mother  would  have  understood,  and 
let  me,  I  know!" 


26  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Pierson  drew  away  his  hand;  the  words  hurt, 
from  reminder  of  his  loss,  from  reminder  of  the 
poor  substitute  he  was. 

"Look,  Nollie!"  he  said.  "After  all  these  years 
since  she  left  us,  I'm  as  lonely  as  ever,  because  we 
were  really  one.  If  you  marry  this  young  man 
without  knowing  more  of  your  own  hearts  than  you 
can  in  such  a  Httle  time,  you  may  regret  it  dread- 
fully; you  may  find  it  turn  out,  after  all,  nothing 
but  a  little  empty  passion;  or  again,  if  anything 
happens  to  him  before  you've  had  any  real  married 
life  together,  you'll  have  a  much  greater  grief  and 
'sense  of  loss  to  put  up  with  than  if  you  simply  stay 
engaged  till  after  the  war.  Besides,  my  child, 
you're  much  too  young." 

She  sat  so  still  that  he  looked  at  her  in  alarm. 

"But  I  must  I" 

He  bit  his  lips,  and  said  sharply:  "You  can't, 
NoUie!" 

She  got  up,  and  before  he  could  stop  her,  was 
gone.  With  the  closing  of  the  door,  his  anger  evap- 
orated, and  distress  took  its  place.  Poor  child! 
What  to  do  with  this  wayward  chicken  just  out  of 
the  egg,  and  wanting  to  be  full-fledged  at  once? 
The  thought  that  she  would  be  lying  miserable, 
crying,  perhaps,  beset  him  so  that  he  went  out  into 
the  passage  and  tapped  on  her  door.  Getting  no 
answer,  he  went  in.  It  was  dark  but  for  a  streak 
of  moonlight,  and  in  that  he  saw  her,  lying  on  her 
bed,  face  down;  and  steaUng  up  laid  his  hand  on 
her  head.  She  did  not  move;  and,  stroking  her 
hair,  he  said  gently: 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  27 

"Nollie  dear,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  harsh.  If  I 
were  your  mother,  I  should  know  how  to  make  you 
see,  but  I'm  only  an  old  bumble-daddy." 

She  rolled  over,  scrambUng  into  a  cross-legged 
posture  on  the  bed.  He  could  see  her  eyes  shining. 
But  she  did  not  speak;  she  seemed  to  know  that  in 
silence  was  her  strength. 

He  said  with  a  sort  of  despair: 

"You  must  let  me  talk  it  over  with  your  aimt. 
She  has  a  lot  of  good  sense." 

"Yes." 

He  bent  over  and  kissed  her  hot  forehead. 

"Good  night,  my  dear;  don't  cry.    Promise  me !" 

She  nodded,  and  lifted  her  face;  he  felt  her  hot 
soft  Ups  on  his  forehead,  and  went  away  a  little 
comforted. 

But  Noel  sat  on  her  bed,  hugging  her  knees, 
listening  to  the  night,  to  the  emptiness  and  silence; 
each  minute — so  much  lost  of  the  little,  little  time 
left,  that  she  might  have  been  with  him. 


Ill 

i. 

PiEESON  woke  after  a  troubled  and  dreamful 
night,  in  which  he  had  thought  himself  wandering 
in  heaven  like  a  lost  soul. 

After  regaining  his  room  last  night  nothing  had 
struck  him  more  forcibly  than  the  needlessness  of 
his  words:  "Don't  cry,  Nollie !"  for  he  had  realised 
with  uneasiness  that  she  had  not  been  near  crying. 
No;  there  was  in  her  some  emotion  very  different 
from  the  tearful.  He  kept  seeing  her  cross-legged 
figure  on  the  bed  in  that  dim  hght;  tense,  enig- 
matic, almost  Chinese;  kept  feehng  the  feverish 
touch  of  her  lips.  A  good  girlish  burst  of  tears 
would  have  done  her  good,  and  been  a  guarantee. 
He  had  the  imcomfortable  conviction  that  his  re- 
fusal had  passed  her  by,  as  if  unspoken.  And, 
since  he  could  not  go  and  make  music  at  that  time 
of  night,  he  had  ended  on  his  knees,  in  a  long  search 
for  guidance,  which  was  not  vouchsafed  him. 

The  culprits  were  demure  at  breakfast;  no  one 
could  have  told  that  for  the  last  hour  they  had 
been  sitting  with  their  arms  round  each  other, 
watching  the  river  flow  by,  talking  but  little, 
through  lips  too  busy.  Pierson  pursued  his  sister- 
in-law  to  the  room  where  she  did  her  flowers  every 
morning.    He  watched  her  for  a  minute  dividing 

28 


''I 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  29 

ramblers  from  pansies,  cornflowers  from  sweet  peas, 
before  he  said: 

'^I'm  very  troubled,  Thirza.  Nollie  came  to  me 
last  night.  Imagine!  They  want  to  get  married 
— those  two!" 

Accepting  life  as  it  came,  Thirza  showed  no  dis- 
may, but  her  cheeks  grew  a  httle  pinker,  and  her 
eyes  a  httle  rounder.     She  took  up  a  sprig  of  mi 
gnonette,  and  said  placidly: 
Oh,  my  dear!" 

'■  Thmk  of  it,  Thirza— that  child !  Why,  it's  only 
a  year  or  two  since  she  used  to  sit  on  my  knee  and 
tickle  my  face  with  her  hair." 

Thirza  went  on  arranging  her  flowers. 

"Noel  is  older  than  you  think,  Edward;  she  is 
more  than  her  age.  And  real  married  hfe  wouldn't 
begin  for  them  till  after — if  it  ever  began." 

Pierson  experienced  a  sort  of  shock.  His  sister- 
in-law's  words  seemed  criminally  light-hearted. 

"But — but — "  he  stammered;  "the  union,  Thirza ! 
Who  can  tell  what  will  happen  before  they  come 
together  again!" 

She  looked  at  his  quivering  face,  and  said 
gently: 

"I  know,  Edward;  but  if  you  refuse,  I  should  be 
afraid,  in  these  days,  of  what  Noel  might  do.  I 
told  you  that  there's  a  streak  of  desperation  in  her." 

"Noel  will  obey  me." 

"I  wonder!  There  are  so  many  of  these  war 
marriages  now." 

Pierson  turned  away  from  her. 


30  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"I  think  they're  dreadful,"  he  said,  staring  fix- 
edly before  him.  "What  do  they  mean — ^just  a 
momentary  gratification  of  passion.  They  might 
just  as  well  not  be." 

"They  mean  pensions,  as  a  rule,"  said  Thirza 
calmly. 

"Thirza,  that  is  cynical;  besides,  it  doesn't  affect 
this  case.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  my  Httle  Nollie 
giving  herself  for  a  moment  which  may  come  to 
nothing,  or  may  turn  out  the  beginning  of  an  un- 
happy marriage.  Who  is  this  boy — ^what  is  he?  I 
know  nothing  of  him.  How  can  I  give  her  to  him 
— it's  impossible !  If  they  had  been  engaged  some 
time  and  I  knew  something  of  him — ^yes,  perhaps; 
even  at  her  age.  But  this  hasty  passionateness — 
it  isn't  right,  it  isn't  decent.  I  don't  understand, 
I  really  don't — ^how  a  child  like  that  can  want  it. 
The  fact  is,  she  doesn't  know  what  she's  asking, 
poor  little  NoUie.  She  can't  know  the  nature  of 
marriage,  and  she  can't  reahse  its  sacredness.  If 
only  her  mother  were  here!  Talk  to  her,  Thirza; 
you  can  say  things  that  I  can't!" 

Thirza  looked  after  the  retreating  figure.  In  spite 
of  his  cloth,  perhaps  a  little  because  of  it,  he  seemed 
to  her  like  a  child  who  had  come  to  show  her  his 
sore  finger.  And,  having  finished  the  arrangement 
of  her  flowers,  she  went  out  to  find  her  niece.  She 
had  not  far  to  go;  for  Noel  was  standing  in  the  hall, 
quite  evidently  lying  in  wait.  They  went  out  to- 
gether to  the  avenue. 

The  girl  began  at  once: 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  31 

"It  isn't  any  use  talking  to  me,  Auntie;  Cyril 
is  going  to  get  a  licence." 

"Oh !    So  you've  made  up  your  minds?" 

"Quite." 

"Do  you  think  that's  fair  by  me,  Nollie?  Should 
I  have  asked  him  here  if  I'd  thought  this  was  going 
to  happen?" 

Noel  only  smiled. 

"Have  you  the  least  idea  what  marriage  means?'* 

Noel  nodded. 

"Really?" 

"Of  course.  Gratian  is  married.  Besides,  at 
school " 

"Your  father  is  dead  against  it.  This  is  a  sad 
thing  for  him.  He's  a  perfect  saint,  and  you  ought- 
n't to  hurt  him.  Can't  you  wait,  at  least  till  Cyril's 
next  leave?" 

"He  might  never  have  one,  you  see." 

The  heart  of  her  whose  boys  were  out  there  too, 
and  might  also  never  have  another  leave,  could  not 
but  be  responsive  to  those  words.  She  looked  at 
her  niece,  and  a  dim  appreciation  of  this  revolt  of 
life  menaced  by  death,  of  youth  threatened  with  ex- 
tinction, stirred  in  her.  Noel's  teeth  were  clenched, 
her  lips  drawn  back,  and  she  was  staring  in  front 
of  her,  wide-eyed. 

"Daddy  oughtn't  to  mind.  Old  people  haven't 
to  fight,  and  get  kiUed;  they  oughtn't  to  mind  us 
taking  what  we  can.     They've  had  their  good  time." 

It  was  such  a  just  Httle  speech  that  Thirza  an- 
swered: 


32  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"Yes;  perhaps  he  hasn't  quite  realised  that." 

"I  want  to  make  sure  of  Cyril,  Auntie;  I  want 
everything  I  can  have  with  him  while  there's  the 
chance.  I  don't  think  it's  much  to  ask,  when  per- 
haps I'll  never  have  any  more  of  him  again." 

Thirza  sUpped  her  hand  through  the  girl's  arm. 

"I  understand,"  she  said.  "Only,  NoUie,  sup- 
pose, when  all  this  is  over,  and  we  breathe  and  live 
naturally  once  more,  you  found  you'd  made  a  mis- 
take?" 

Noel  shook  her  head.    "I  haven  t." 

"We  all  think  that,  my  dear;  but  thousands  of 
mistakes  are  made  by  people  who  no  more  dream 
they're  making  them  than  you  do  now;  and  then 
it's  a  very  horrible  business.  It  would  be  especially 
horrible  for  you;  your  father  believes  heart  and  soul 
in  marriage  being  for  ever." 

"Daddy's  a  darhng;  but  I  don't  always  beHeve 
what  he  beheves,  you  know.  Besides,  I'm  not  mak- 
ing a  mistake.  Auntie;  I  love  Cyril  ever  so." 

Thirza  gave  her  waist  a  squeeze. 

"You  mustn't  make  a  mistake.  We  love  you  too 
much,  Nollie.    I  wish  we  had  Gratian  here." 

"Gratian  would  back  me  up,"  said  Noel;  "she 
knows  what  the  war  is.  And  you  ought  to.  Auntie. 
If  Rex  or  Harry  wanted  to  be  married,  I'm  sure 
you'd  never  oppose  them.  And  they're  no  older 
than  Cyril.  You  must  understand  what  it  means 
to  me.  Auntie  dear,  to  feel  that  we  belong  to  each 
other  properly  before — ^before  it  all  begins  for  him, 
and — and  there  may  be  no  more.    Daddy  doesn't 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  33 

realise.  I  know  he's  awfully  good,  but — ^he*s  for- 
gotten." 

"My  dear,  I  think  he  remembers  only  too  well. 
He  was  desperately  attached  to  your  mother.'* ' 

Noel  clenched  her  hands. 

"Was  he?  Well,  so  am  I  to  Cyril,  and  he  to  me. 
We  wouldn't  be  unreasonable  if  it  wasn't — wasn't 
necessary.  Talk  to  Cyril,  Auntie;  then  you'll  un- 
derstand. There  he  is;  only,  don't  keep  him  long, 
because  I  want  him.  Oh!  Auntie,  I  want  him  so 
badly  r' 

She  turned,  and  slipped  back  into  the  house;  and 
Thirza,  conscious  of  having  been  decoyed  to  this 
young  man,  who  stood  there  with  his  arms  folded, 
like  Napoleon  before  a  battle,  smiled  and  said: 

"Well,  Cyril,  so  you've  betrayed  me!" 

Even  in  speaking  she  was  conscious  of  the  really 
momentous  change  in  this  sunburnt,  blue-eyed, 
lazily  impudent  youth  since  the  day  he  arrived, 
three  weeks  ago,  in  their  little  wagonette.  He  took 
her  arm,  just  as  Noel  had,  and  made  her  sit  down 
beside  him  on  the  rustic  bench,  where  he  had  evi- 
dently been  told  to  wait. 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Pierson,"  he  said,  "it's  not  as  if 
Noel  were  an  ordinary  girl  in  an  ordinary  time,  is 
it?  Noel  is  the  sort  of  girl  one  would  knock  one's 
brains  out  for;  and  to  send  me  out  there  knowing 
that  I  could  have  been  married  to  her  and  wasn't, 
will  take  all  the  heart  out  of  me.  Of  course  I  mean 
to  come  back,  but  chaps  do  get  knocked  over,  and 
I  think  it's  cruel  that  we  can't  take  what  we  can 


34  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

while  we  can.  Besides,  I've  got  money;  and  that 
would  be  hers  anyway.  So,  do  be  a  darling,  won't 
you?"  He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  just  as  if 
he  had  been  her  son,  and  her  heart,  which  wanted 
her  own  boys  so  badly,  felt  warmed  within  her. 

"You  see,  I  don't  know  Mr.  Pierson,  but  he  seems 
awfully  gentle  and  jolly,  and  if  he  could  see  into 
me  he  wouldn't  mind,  I  know.  We  don't  mind 
risking  our  Uves  and  all  that,  but  we  do  think  we 
ought  to  have  the  run  of  them  while  we're  alive. 
I'll  give  him  my  dying  oath  or  anything,  that  I 
could  never  change  towards  Noel,  and  she'll  do  the 
same.  Oh !  Mrs.  Pierson,  do  be  a  jolly  brick,  and 
put  in  a  word  for  me,  quick!  We've  got  so  few 
days!" 

''But,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Thirza  feebly,  "do  you 
think  it's  fair  to  such  a  child  as  Noel?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  You  don't  understand;  she's  simply 
had  to  grow  up.  She  is  grown-up — all  in  this  week; 
she's  quite  as  old  as  I  am,  really — and  I'm  twenty- 
two.  And  you  know  it's  going  to  be — it's  got  to 
be — a  young  world,  from  now  on;  people  wiU  begin 
doing  things  much  earher.  What's  the  use  of  pre- 
tending it's  like  what  it  was,  and  being  cautious, 
and  all  that?  If  I'm  going  to  be  killed,  I  think 
we've  got  a  right  to  be  married  first;  and  if  I'm 
not,  then  what  does  it  matter?" 

"You've  known  each  other  twenty-one  days, 
CyrU." 

"No;  twenty-one  years!  Every  day's  a  year 
when —  Oh !  Mrs.  Pierson,  this  isn't  like  you,  is 
it?    You  never  go  to  meet  trouble,  do  you?" 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  35 

At  that  shrewd  remark,  Thirza  put  her  hand  on 
the  hand  which  still  clasped  her  waist,  and  pressed 
it  closer. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  she  said  softly,  "we  must  see 
what  can  be  done." 

Cyril  Morland  kissed  her  cheek.  "I  will  bless 
you  for  ever,"  he  said.  "I  haven't  got  any  people, 
you  know,  except  my  two  sisters." 

And  something  like  tears  started  up  on  Thirza's 
eyelashes.  They  seemed  to  her  like  the  babes  in 
the  wood — those  two ! 


IV 


In  the  dining-room  of  her  father's  house  in  that 
old  London  Square  between  East  and  West,  Gra- 
tian  Laird,  in  the  outdoor  garb  of  a  nurse,  was 
writing  a  telegram:  "Reverend  Edward  Pierson, 
Kestrel,  Tintem,  Monmouthshire.  George  terribly 
ill.  Please  come  if  you  can.  Gratian."  Giving  it 
to  a  maid,  she  took  off  her  long  coat  and  sat  down 
for  a  moment.  She  had  been  travelling  all  night, 
after  a  full  day's  work,  and  had  only  just  arrived, 
to  find  her  husband  between  hfe  and  death.  She 
was  very  different  from  Noel;  not  quite  so  tall,  but 
of  a  stronger  build;  with  dark  chestnut-coloured 
hair,  clear  hazel  eyes,  and  a  broad  brow.  The  ex- 
pression of  her  face  was  earnest,  with  a  sort  of  con- 
stant spiritual  enquiry,  and  a  singularly  truthful 
look.  She  was  just  twenty;  and  of  the  year  that 
she  had  been  married,  had  only  spent  six  weeks 
with  her  husband;  they  had  not  even  a  house  of 
their  own  as  yet.  After  resting  five  minutes,  she 
passed  her  hand  vigorously  over  her  face,  threw 
back  her  head,  and  walked  up  stairs  to  the  room 
where  he  lay.  He  was  not  conscious,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  sit  and  watch  him.  'If  he 
dies,'  she  thought,  'I  shall  hate  God  for  His  cruelty. 
I  have  had  six  weeks  with  George;    some  people 

36 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  37 

have  sixty  years.'  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  his  face, 
short  and  broad,  with  bumps  of  'observation'  on 
the  brows.  He  had  been  sunburnt.  The  dark 
lashes  of  his  closed  eyes  lay  on  deathly  yellow  cheeks; 
his  thick  hair  grew  rather  low  on  his  broad  fore- 
head. The  lips  were  just  open  and  showed  strong 
white  teeth.  He  had  a  Httle  clipped  moustache, 
and  hair  had  grown  on  his  clean-cut  jaw.  His 
pyjama  jacket  had  fallen  open.  Gratian  drew  it 
close.  It  was  curiously  still,  for  a  London  day, 
though  the  window  was  wide  open.  Anything  to 
break  this  heavy  stupor,  which  was  not  only  George's, 
but  her  own,  and  the  very  world's !  The  cruelty  of 
it — ^when  she  might  be  going  to  lose  him  for  ever, 
in  a  few  hours  or  days !  She  thought  of  their  last 
parting.  It  had  not  been  very  loving,  had  come 
too  soon  after  one  of  those  arguments  they  were 
inclined  to  have,  in  which  they  could  not  as  yet 
disagree  with  suavity.  George  had  said  there  was 
no  future  Hfe  for  the  individual;  she  had  main- 
tained there  was.  They  had  grown  hot  and  im- 
patient. Even  in  the  cab  on  the  way  to  his  train 
they  had  pursued  the  wretched  discussion,  and  the 
last  kiss  had  been  from  lips  on  lips  yet  warm  from 
disagreement.  Ever  since,  as  if  in  compunction, 
she  had  been  wavering  towards  his  point  of  view; 
and  now,  when  he  was  perhaps  to  solve  the  problem 
— find  out  for  certain — she  had  come  to  feel  that 
if  he  died,  she  would  never  see  him  after.  It  was 
cruel  that  such  a  blight  should  have  come  on  her 
beHef  at  this,  of  all  moments. 


Q  ;;>  -  ^.^  Q 
«*>  .'-i*  tJ  c;  tj 


38  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his.  It  was  warm,  felt 
strong,  although  so  motionless  and  helpless.  George 
was  so  vigorous,  so  aHve,  and  strong-willed;  it 
seemed  impossible  that  life  might  be  going  to  play 
him  false.  She  recalled  the  unflinching  look  of  his 
steel-bright  eyes,  his  deep,  queerly  vibrating  voice, 
which  had  no  trace  of  self-consciousness  or  pretence. 
She  shpped  her  hand  on  to  his  heart,  and  began 
very  slowly,  gently  rubbing  it.  He,  as  doctor,  and 
she,  as  nurse,  had  both  seen  so  much  of  death  these 
last  two  years !  Yet  it  seemed  suddenly  as  if  she 
had  never  seen  death,  and  that  the  young  faces  she 
had  seen,  empty  and  white,  in  the  hospital  wards, 
had  just  been  a  show.  Death  would  appear  to  her 
for  the  first  time,  if  this  face  which  she  loved  were 
to  be  drained  for  ever  of  Hght  and  colour  and  move- 
ment and  meaning. 

A  bumblebee  from  the  Square  Garden  boomed  in 
and  buzzed  idly  round  the  room.  She  caught  her 
breath  in  a  Httle  sob.  .  .  . 

Pierson  received  that  telegram  at  midday,  re- 
turning from  a  lonely  walk  after  his  talk  with 
Thirza.  Coming  from  Gratian — so  self-reliant — ^it 
meant  the  worst.  He  prepared  at  once  to  catch 
the  next  train.  ,  Noel  was  out,  no  one  knew  where: 
so  with  a  sick  feeling  he  wrote: 

**  Dearest  Child, 

"I  am  going  up  to  Gratian;  poor  George  is  desperately 
ill.    If  it  goes  badly  you  should  be  with  your  sister.    I  will 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  39 

wire  to-morrow  morning  early.    I  leave  you  in  your  aunt's 
hands,  my  dear.    Be  reasonable  and  patient.    God  bless 

^     *  "Your  devoted 

"Daddy." 

He  was  alone  in  his  third-class  compartment, 
and,  leaning  forward,  watched  the  ruined  Abbey 
across  the  river  till  it  was  out  of  sight.  Those  old 
monks  had  Uved  in  an  age  surely  not  so  sad  as  this. 
They  must  have  had  peaceful  Hves,  remote  down 
here,  in  days  when  the  Church  was  great  and  lovely, 
and  men  laid  down  their  lives  for  their  belief  in 
her,  and  built  everlasting  fanes  to  the  glory  of  God ! 
What  a  change  to  this  age  of  rush  and  hurry,  of 
science,  trade,  material  profit,  and  this  terrible  war ! 
He  tried  to  read  his  paper,  but  it  was  full  of  horrors 
and  hate.  'When  wUl  it  end?'  he  thought.  And 
the  train  with  its  rhythmic  jolting  seemed  grinding 
out  the  answer:  "Never — never!" 

At  Chepstow  a  soldier  got  in,  followed  by  a  woman 
with  a  very  flushed  face  and  curious,  swimmy  eyes; 
her  hair  was  in  disorder,  and  her  lip  bleeding,  as  if 
she  had  bitten  it  through.  The  soldier,  too,  looked 
strained  and  desperate.  They  sat  down,  far  apart, 
on  the  seat  opposite.  Pierson,  feeling  that  he  was 
in  their  way,  tried  to  hide  himself  behind  his  paper; 
when  he  looked  again,  the  soldier  had  taken  off  his 
tunic  and  cap  and  was  leaning  out  of  the  window. 
The  woman,  on  the  seat's  edge,  sniffing  and  wiping 
her  face,  met  his  glance  with  resentful  eyes,  then, 
getting  up,  she  pulled  the  man's  sleeve. 


40  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"Sit  dahn;  don't  'ang  out  o'  there." 

The  soldier  flung  himseK  back  on  the  seat  and 
looked  at  Pierson. 

"The  wife  an'  me's  'ad  a  bit  of  a  row,"  he  said 
companionably.  "  Gits  on  me  nerves;  I'm  not  used 
to  it.  She  was  in  a  raid,  and  'er  nerves  are  all 
gone  funny;  ain't  they,  old  girl?  Makes  me  feel 
me  'ead.  I've  been  wounded  there,  you  know; 
can't  stand  much  now.  I  might  do  somethin'  if 
she  was  to  go  on  like  this  for  long." 

Pierson  looked  at  the  woman,  but  her  eyes  still 
met  his  resentfully.  The  soldier  held  out  a  packet 
of  cigarettes.  "Take  one!"  he  said.  Pierson  took 
one  and,  feeHng  that  the  soldier  wanted  him  to 
speak,  murmured:  "We  all  have  these  troubles  with 
those  we're  fond  of;  the  fonder  we  are  of  people,  the 
more  we  feel  them,  don't  we?  I  had  one  with  my 
daughter  last  night." 

"Ah!"  said  the  soldier;  "that's  right.  The  wife 
and  me'll  make  it  up.     'Ere,  come  orf  it,  old  girl." 

From  behind  his  paper  he  soon  became  conscious 
of  the  sounds  of  reconcihation — reproaches  because 
someone  had  been  offered  a  drink,  kisses  mixed  with 
mild  slappings,  and  abuse.  When  they  got  out  at 
Bristol  the  soldier  shook  his  hand  warmly,  but  the 
woman  still  gave  him  her  resentful  stare,  and  he 
thought  dreamily:  *The  war!  How  it  affects 
everyone!'  His  carriage  was  invaded  by  a  swarm 
of  soldiers,  and  the  rest  of  the  journey  was  passed 
in  making  himself  small.  When  at  last  he  reached 
home,  Gratian  met  him  in  the  hall. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  41 

"Just  the  same.  The  doctor  says  we  shall  know 
in  a  few  hours  now.  How  sweet  of  you  to  come! 
You  must  be  tired,  in  this  heat.  It  was  dreadful 
to  spoil  your  holiday." 

"  My  dear !    As  if — •    May  I  go  up  and  see  him  ?  '* 

George  Laird  was  still  lying  in  that  stupor.  And 
Pierson  stood  gazing  down  at  him  compassionately. 
Like  most  parsons,  he  had  a  wide  acquaintance  with 
the  sick  and  d3dng;  and  one  remorseless  fellowship 
with  death.  Death!  The  commonest  thing  in 
the  world,  now — commoner  than  hfe !  This  young 
doctor  must  have  seen  many  die  in  these  last 
two  years,  saved  many  from  death;  and  there 
he  lay,  not  able  to  lift  a  finger  to  save  himself. 
Pierson  looked  at  his  daughter;  what  a  strong, 
promising  young  couple  they  were!  And  putting 
his  arm  round  her,  he  led  her  away  to  the  sofa, 
whence  they  could  see  the  sick  man. 

"If  he  dies,  Dad — "  she  whispered. 

"He  -will  have  died  for  the  Country,  my  love, 
as  much  as  ever  our  soldiers  do." 

"I  know;  but  that's  no  comfort.  I've  been 
watching  here  all  day;  I've  been  thinking;  men 
will  be  just  as  brutal  afterwards — ^more  brutal. 
The  world  will  go  on  the  same." 

"We  must  hope  not.     Shall  we  pray,  Gracie?" 

Gratian  shook  her  head. 

"If  I  could  believe  that  the  world — ^if  I  could  be- 
lieve anything!  I've  lost  the  power,  Dad;  I  don't 
even  beheve  in  a  future  hfe.  If  George  dies,  we 
shall  never  meet  again." 


42  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Pierson  stared  at  her  without  a  word. 

Gratian  went  on:  "The  last  time  we  talked,  I 
was  angry  with  George  because  he  laughed  at  my 
belief;  now  that  I  really  want  beHef,  I  feel  that  he 
was  right." 

Pierson  said  tremulously: 

"No,  no,  my  dear;  it's  only  that  you're  over- 
wrought. God  in  His  mercy  will  give  you  back  be- 
lief." 

"There  is  no  God,  Dad." 

"My  darling  child,  what  are  you  saying?" 

"No  God  who  can  help  us;  I  feel  it.  If  there 
were  any  God  who  could  take  part  in  our  lives,  alter 
anything  without  our  will,  knew  or  cared  what  we 
did — He  wouldn't  let  the  world  go  on  as  it  does." 

"But,  my  dear.  His  purposes  are  inscrutable. 
We  dare  not  say  He  should  not  do  this  or  that,  or 
try  to  fathom  to  what  ends  He  is  working." 

"Then  He's  no  good  to  us.  It's  the  same  as  if 
He  didn't  exist.  Why  should  I  pray  for  George's 
life  to  One  whose  ends  are  just  His  own?  I  know 
George  oughtn't  to  die.  If  there's  a  God  who  can 
help,  it  will  be  a  wicked  shame  if  George  dies;  if 
there's  a  God  who  can  help,  it's  a  wicked  shame 
when  babies  die,  and  all  these  millions  of  poor  boys. 
I  would  rather  think  there's  no  God  than  a  helpless 
or  a  wicked  God " 

Her  father  had  suddenly  thrown  up  his  hands  to 
his  ears.  She  moved  closer,  and  put  her  arm  round 
him. 

"Dad  dear,  I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt 
you." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  43 

Pierson  pressed  her  face  down  to  his  shoulder; 
and,  sitting  rigid,  said  in  a  dull  voice: 

"What  do  you  think  would  have  happened  to 
me,  Gracie,  if  I  had  lost  behef  when  your  mother 
died  ?  I  have  never  lost  behef.  Pray  God  I  never 
shaU!" 

Gratian  murmured: 

*' George  would  not  wish  me  to  pretend  I  believe 
— ^he  would  want  me  to  be  honest.  If  I'm  not  honest, 
I  shan't  deserve  that  he  should  Hve.  I  don't  be- 
Heve,  and  I  can't  pray." 

"My  darhng,  you're  overtired." 

"No,  Dad."  She  raised  her  head  from  his  shoul- 
der and,  clasping  her  hands  round  her  knees,  looked 
straight  before  her.  "We  can  only  help  ourselves; 
and  I  can  only  bear  it  if  I  rebel." 

Pierson  sat  with  trembhng  lips,  feeUng  that 
nothing  he  could  say  would  touch  her  just  then. 
The  sick  man's  face  was  hardly  visible  now  in  the 
twilight,  and  Gratian  went  over  to  his  bed.  She 
stood  looking  down  at  him  a  long  time. 

"Go  and  rest,  Dad;  the  doctor's  coming  again 
at  eleven.  I'll  call  you  if  I  want  anything.  I  shall 
lie  down  a  Httle,  beside  him." 

Pierson  kissed  her,  and  went  out.  To  lie  there 
beside  him  would  be  the  greatest  comfort  she  could 
get.  He  went  to  the  bare  narrow  little  room  he 
had  occupied  ever  since  his  wife  died;  and,  taking 
off  his  boots,  walked  up  and  down,  with  a  feeling 
of  almost  crushing  loneHness.  Both  his  daughters 
in  such  trouble,  and  he  of  no  use  to  them !  It  was 
as  if  Life  were  pushing  him  utterly  aside !    He  felt 


44  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

confused,  helpless,  bewildered.  Surely  if  Gratian 
loved  George,  she  had  not  left  God's  side,  whatever 
she  might  say.  Then,  conscious  of  the  profound 
heresy  of  this  thought,  he  stood  still  at  the  open 
window. 

Earthly  love — ^heavenly  love;  was  there  any 
analogy  between  them? 

From  the  Square  Gardens  the  indifferent  whisper 
of  the  leaves  answered;  and  a  newsvendor  at  the 
far  end,  bawling  his  nightly  tale  of  murder. 

3§ 

George  Laird  passed  the  crisis  of  his  illness  that 
night,  and  in  the  morning  was  pronounced  out  of 
danger.  He  had  a  splendid  constitution,  and — • 
Scotsman  on  his  father's  side — a  fighting  character. 
He  came  back  to  life  very  weak,  but  avid  of  recov- 
ery; and  his  first  words  were:  "I've  been  hanging 
over  the  edge,  Gracie!" 

A  very  high  cliff,  and  his  body  half  over,  balanc- 
ing; one  inch,  the  merest  fraction  of  an  inch  more, 
and  over  he  would  have  gone.  Deuced  rum  sensa- 
tion !  But  not  so  horrible  as  it  would  have  been 
in  real  life.  With  the  sHp  of  that  last  inch  he  felt 
he  would  have  passed  at  once  into  oblivion,  with- 
out the  long  horror  of  a  fall.  So  this  was  what  it 
was  for  all  the  poor  fellows  he  had  seen  slip  in  the 
past  two  years !  Mercifully,  at  the  end,  one  was 
not  alive  enough  to  be  conscious  of  what  one  was 
leaving,  not  alive  enough  even  to  care.     If  he  had 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  45 

been  able  to  take  in  the  presence  of  his  young  wife, 
able  to  reahse  that  he  was  looking  at  her  face, 
touching  her  for  the  last  time — it  would  have  been 
hell;  if  he  had  been  up  to  reahsing  sunlight,  moon- 
light, the  sound  of  the  world's  Hfe  outside,  the  soft- 
ness of  the  bed  he  lay  on — ^it  would  have  meant 
the  most  poignant  anguish  of  defraudment.  Life 
was  a  rare  good  thing,  and  to  be  squashed  out  of 
it  with  your  powers  at  full,  a  wretched  mistake  in 
Nature's  arrangements,  a  wretched  villainy  on  the 
part  of  Man — for  his  own  death,  like  all  those  other 
millions  of  premature  deaths,  would  have  been  due 
to  the  idiocy  and  brutality  of  man !  He  could 
smile  now,  with  Gratian  looking  down  at  him,  but 
the  experience  had  heaped  fuel  on  a  fire  which  had 
always  smouldered  in  his  doctor's  soul  against  that 
haK-emancipated  breed  of  apes,  the  human  race. 
Well,  now  he  would  get  a  few  days  off  from  this 
death-carnival!  And  he  lay,  feasting  his  return- 
ing senses  on  his  wife.  She  made  a  pretty  nurse, 
and  his  practised  eye  judged  her  a  good  one — firm 
and  quiet. 

George  Laird  was  thirty.  At  the  opening  of  the 
war  he  was  in  an  East-End  practice,  and  had  volun- 
teered at  once  for  service  with  the  Army.  For  the 
first  nine  months  he  had  been  right  up  in  the  thick 
of  it.  A  poisoned  arm,  rather  than  the  authorities, 
had  sent  him  home.  During  that  leave  he  married 
Gratian.  He  had  known  the  Piersons  some  time; 
and,  made  conscious  of  the  instability  of  life,  had 
resolved  to  marry  her  at  the  first  chance  he  got. 


46  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

For  his  father-in-law  he  had  respect  and  Hking,  ever 
mixed  with  what  was  not  quite  contempt  and  not 
quite  pity.  The  blend  of  authority  with  humility, 
cleric  with  dreamer,  monk  with  artist,  mystic  with 
man  of  action,  in  Pierson,  excited  in  him  an  inter- 
ested, but  often  irritated  wonder.  He  saw  things 
so  differently  himself,  and  had  Httle  of  the  humor- 
ous curiosity  which  enjoys  what  is  strange  simply 
because  it  is  strange.  They  could  never  talk  to- 
gether without  soon  reaching  a  point  when  he  wanted 
to  say:  "If  we're  not  to  trust  our  reason  and  our 
senses  for  what  they're  worth,  sir — will  you  kindly 
teU  me  what  we  are  to  trust?  How  can  we  exert 
them  to  the  utmost  in  some  matters,  and  in  others 
suddenly  turn  our  backs  on  them?"  Once,  in  one 
of  their  discussions,  which  often  bordered  on  acri- 
mony, he  had  expounded  himseh  at  length. 

"I  grant,"  he  had  said,  "that  there's  a  great 
ultimate  Mystery,  that  we  shall  never  know  any- 
thing for  certain  about  the  origin  of  hfe  and  the 
principle  of  the  Universe;  but  why  should  we  sud- 
denly shut  up  our  enquiring  apparatus  and  deny 
all  the  evidence  of  our  reason — say,  about  the  story 
of  Christ,  or  the  question  of  a  future  hfe,  or  our 
moral  code?  If  you  want  me  to  enter  a  temple 
of  little  mysteries,  leaving  my  reason  and  senses 
behind — as  a  Mohammedan  leaves  his  shoes — it 
won't  do  to  say  to  me  simply :  '  There  it  is !  Enter ! ' 
You  must  show  me  the  door;  and  you  can't!  And 
I'll  tell  you  why,  sir.  Because  in  your  brain  there's 
a  httle  twist  which  is  not  in  mine,  or  the  lack  of  a 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  47 

little  twist  which  is  in  mine.  Nothing  more  than 
that  divides  us  into  the  two  main  species  of  man- 
kind, one  of  whom  worships,  and  one  of  whom 
doesn't.  Oh,  yes !  I  know — I  know,  you  won't 
admit  that,  because  it  makes  your  religions  natural 
instead  of  supernatural.  But  I  assure  you  there's 
nothing  more  to  it.  Your  eyes  look  up  or  they  look 
down — they  never  look  straight  before  them.  Well, 
mine  do  just  the  opposite." 

That  day  Pierson  had  been  feeling  very  tired, 
and  though  to  meet  this  attack  was  vital,  he  had 
been  unable  to  meet  it.  His  brain  had  stammered. 
He  had  turned  a  Uttle  away,  leaning  his  cheek  on 
his  hand,  as  if  to  cover  that  momentary  break  in 
his  defences.     Some  days  later  he  had  said: 

"I  am  able  now  to  answer  your  questions,  George. 
I  think  I  can  make  you  understand.' 

Laird  had  answered:  "All  right,  sir;  go  ahead." 

"You  begin  by  assuming  that  the  human  reason 
is  the  final  test  of  all  things.  What  right  have  you 
to  assume  that?  Suppose  you  were  an  ant.  You 
would  take  your  ant's  reason  as  the  final  test, 
wouldn't  you?  Would  that  be  the  truth?"  And  a 
smile  had  fixed  itself  on  his  lips  above  his  little 
grave  beard. 

George  Laird  also  had  smiled. 

"That  seems  a  good  point,  sir,'*  he  said,  "until 
you  recognise  that  I  don't  take  the  human  reason 
as  final  test  in  any  absolute  sense.  I  only  say  it's 
the  highest  test  we  can  apply;  and  that,  behind  that 
test  all  is  quite  dark  and  unknowable." 


48  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


"Revelation,  then,  means  nothing  to  you?" 

"Nothing,  sir." 

"I  don't  think  we  can  usefully  go  on,  George." 

"I  don't  think  we  can,  sir.  In  talking  with  you, 
I  always  feel  like  fighting  a  man  with  one  hand  tied 
behind  his  back." 

"And  I,  perhaps,  feel  that  I  am  arguing  with  one 
who  was  blind  from  birth.'* 

For  all  that,  they  had  often  argued  since;  but 
never  without  those  pecuHar  smiles  coming  on  their 
faces.  Still,  they  respected  each  other,  and  Pierson 
had  not  opposed  his  daughter's  marriage  to  this 
heretic,  whom  he  knew  to  be  an  honest  and  trust- 
worthy man.  It  had  taken  place  before  Laird's 
arm  was  well,  and  the  two  had  snatched  a  month's 
honeymoon  before  he  went  back  to  France,  and  she 
to  her  hospital  in  Manchester.  Since  then,  just  one 
February  fortnight  by  the  sea  had  been  aU  their 
time  together.  .  .  . 

In  the  afternoon  he  had  asked  for  beef  tea,  and, 
having  drunk  a  cup,  said: 

"I've  got  something  to  tell  your  father." 

But  warned  by  the  pallor  of  his  smiling  lips,  Gra- 
tian  answered: 

"Tell  me  first,  George." 

"Our  last  talk,  Gracie;  well — there's  nothing  on 
the  other  side.  I  looked  over;  it's  as  black  as  your 
hat." 

Gratian  shivered. 

"I  know.  While  you  were  lying  here  last  night, 
I  told  father." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  49 

He  squeezed  her  hand,  and  said:  "I  also  want  to 
teU  him." 
''Dad  will  say  the  motive  for  Hfe  is  gone." 
"I  say  it  leaps  out  all  the  more,  Gracie.  What 
a  mess  we  make  of  it — we  angel-apes  1  When  shall 
we  be  men,  I  wonder?  You  and  I,  Gracie,  will 
fight  for  a  decent  Hfe  for  everybody.  No  hands- 
upping  about  that!  Bend  down!  It's  good  to 
touch  you  again;  everything's  good.  I'm  going  to 
have  a  sleep.  .  .  ." 

4§ 

After  the  rehef  of  the  doctor's  report  in  the  early 
morning  Pierson  had  gone  through  a  hard  struggle. 
What  should  he  wire  to  Noel?  He  longed  to  get 
her  back  home,  away  from  temptation  to  the  burn- 
ing indiscretion  of  this  marriage.  But  ought  he  to 
suppress  reference  to  George's  progress?  Would 
that  be  honest?  At  last  he  sent  this  telegram: 
''George  out  of  danger  but  very  weak.     Come  up." 

By  the  afternoon  post,  however,  he  received  a 
letter  from  Thirza: 

"I  have  had  two  long  talks  with  Noel  and  Cyril,  It  is 
impossible  to  budge  them.  And  I  really  think,  dear  Edward, 
that  it  will  be  a  mistake  to  oppose  it  rigidly.  He  may  not 
go  out  as  soon  as  we  think.  How  would  it  be  to  consent  to 
their  having  banns  published? — that  would  mean  another 
three  weeks  anyway,  and  in  absence  from  each  other  they 
might  be  influenced  to  put  it  off.  I'm  afraid  this  is  the  only 
chance,  for  if  you  simply  forbid  it,  I  feel  they  will  run  off 
and  get  married  somewhere  at  a  registrar's." 


so  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Pierson  took  this  letter  out  with  him  into  the 
Square  Garden,  for  painful  cogitation.  No  man 
can  hold  a  position  of  spiritual  authority  for  long 
years  without  developing  the  habit  of  judgment. 
He  judged  Noel's  conduct  to  be  headlong  and  un- 
disciplined, and  the  vein  of  stubbornness  in  his 
character  fortified  the  father  and  the  priest  within 
him.  Thirza  disappointed  him;  she  did  not  seem 
to  see  the  irretrievable  gravity  of  this  hasty  mar- 
riage. She  seemed  to  look  on  it  as  something  much 
lighter  than  it  was,  to  consider  that  it  might  be  left 
to  Chance,  and  that  if  Chance  turned  out  unfa- 
vourable, there  would  still  be  a  way  out.  To  him 
there  would  be  no  way  out.  He  looked  up  at  the 
sky,  as  if  for  inspiration.  It  was  such  a  beautiful 
day,  and  so  bitter  to  hurt  his  child,  even  for  her 
good !  What  would  her  mother  have  advised  ? 
Surely  Agnes  had  felt  at  least  as  much  as  himself 
the  utter  solemnity  of  marriage !  And,  sitting  there 
in  the  sunlight,  he  painfully  hardened  his  heart. 
He  must  do  what  he  thought  right,  no  matter  what 
the  consequences.  So  he  went  in  and  wrote  that 
he  could  not  agree,  and  wished  Noel  to  come  back 
home  at  once. 


I§ 

But  on  the  same  afternoon,  just  about  that  hour, 
Noel  was  sitting  on  the  river-bank  with  her  arms 
folded  tight  across  her  chest,  and  by  her  side  Cyril 
Morland,  with  despair  in  his  face,  was  twisting  a 
telegram:  "Rejoin  to-night.  Regiment  leaves  to- 
morrow." 

What  consolation  that  a  million  such  telegrams 
had  been  read  and  sorrowed  over  these  last  two  years ! 
What  comfort  that  the  sun  was  daily  blotted  dim 
for  hundreds  of  bright  eyes;  the  joy  of  Hfe  poured 
out  and  sopped  up  by  the  sands  of  desolation ! 
'How  long  have  we  got,  Cyril?" 
'I've  engaged  a  car  from  the  Inn,  so  I  needn't 
leave  till  midnight.  IVe  packed  already,  to  have 
more  time." 

"Let's  have  it  to  ourselves,  then.  Let's  go  off 
somewhere.     I've  got  some  chocolate." 

Morland  answered  miserably: 

"I  can  send  the  car  up  here  for  my  things,  and 
have  it  pick  me  up  at  the  Inn,  if  you'll  say  good-bye 
to  them  for  me,  afterwards.  We'll  walk  down  the 
line,  then  we  shan't  meet  anyone." 

And  in  the  bright  sunlight  they  walked  hand  in 
hand  on  each  side  of  a  shining  rail.  About  six  they 
reached  the  Abbey. 

"Let's  get  a  boat,"  said  Noel.     "We  can  come 


li- 


52  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

back  here  when  it's  moonlight.  I  know  a  way  of 
getting  in,  after  the  gate's  shut." 

They  hired  a  boat,  rowed  over  to  the  far  bank, 
and  sat  on  the  stem  seat,  side  by  side  under  the 
trees  where  the  water  was  stained  deep  green  by 
the  high  woods.  If  they  talked,  it  was  but  a  word 
of  love  now  and  then,  or  to  draw  each  other's  atten- 
tion to  a  fish,  a  bird,  a  dragon-fly.  Wliat  use  making 
plans — ^for  lovers  the  chief  theme?  Longing  para- 
lysed their  brains.  They  could  do  nothing  but 
press  close  to  each  other,  their  hands  enlaced,  their 
lips  meeting  now  and  then.  On  Noel's  face  was  a 
strange  fixed  stillness,  as  if  she  were  waiting — ex- 
pecting !  They  ate  their  chocolates.  The  sun  set, 
dew  began  to  fall;  the  river  changed,  and  grew 
whiter;  the  sky  paled  to  the  colour  of  an  amethyst; 
shadows  lengthened,  dissolved  slowly.  It  was  past 
nine  already;  a  water-rat  came  out,  a  white  owl 
flew  over  the  river,  towards  the  Abbey.  The  moon 
had  come  up,  but  shed  no  light  as  yet.  They  saw 
no  beauty  in  all  this — too  young,  too  passionate, 
too  unhappy. 

Noel  said:  "WTien  she's  over  those  trees,  Cyril, 
let's  go.     It'U  be  half  dark." 

They  waited,  watching  the  moon,  which  crept 
with  infinite  slowoiess  up  and  up,  brightening  ever 
so  Httle  every  minute. 

''Now!"  said  Noel.     And  IMorland  rowed  across. 

They  left  the  boat,  and  she  led  the  way  past  an 
empty  cottage,  to  a  shed  with  a  roof  sloping  up  to 
the  Abbey's  low  outer  wall. 

"We  can  get  over  here,"  she  whispered. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  53 

They  clambered  up,  and  over,  to  a  piece  of  grassy 
courtyard,  and  passed  on  to  an  inner  court,  under 
the  black  shadow  of  the  high  walls. 

"What's  the  time?"  said  Noel. 

"Half-past  ten." 

"Already  !  Let's  sit  here  in  the  dark,  and  watch 
for  the  moon." 

They  sat  down  close  together.  Noel's  face  still 
had  on  it  that  strange  look  of  waiting ;  and  Morland 
sat  obedient,  with  his  hand  on  her  heart,  and  his 
own  heart  beating  almost  to  suffocation.  They  sat, 
still  as  mice,  and  the  moon  crept  up.  It  laid  a 
first  vague  greyness  on  the  high  wall,  which  spread 
slowly  do^vn,  and  brightened  till  the  lichen  and  the 
grasses  up  there  were  visible;  then  crept  on,  silver- 
ing the  dark  above  their  heads.  Noel  pulled  his 
sleeve,  and  whispered:  "See!"  There  came  the 
white  owl,  soft  as  a  snowflake,  drifting  across  in  that 
unearthly  Hght,  as  if  flying  to  the  moon.  And  just 
then  the  top  of  the  moon  itself  looked  over  the  wall, 
a  shaving  of  silvery  gold.  It  grew,  became  a  bright 
spread  fan,  then  balanced  there,  full  and  round,  the 
colour  of  pale  honey. 

"Ours!"  Noel  whispered. 


From  the  side  of  the  road  Noel  listened  till  the 
sound  of  the  car  was  lost  in  the  folds  of  the  valley. 
She  did  not  cry,  but  passed  her  hands  over  her  face, 
and  began  to  walk  home,  keeping  to  the  shadow  of 
the  trees.  How  many  years  had  been  added  to  her 
age  in  those  six  hours  since  the  telegram  came ! 


54  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Several  times  in  that  mile  and  a  half  she  stepped 
into  a  patch  of  brighter  moonlight,  to  take  out  and 
kiss  a  little  photograph,  then  slip  it  back  next  her 
heart,  heedless  that  so  warm  a  place  must  destroy 
any  efSigy.  She  felt  not  the  faintest  compunction 
for  the  recklessness  of  her  love — ^it  was  her  only 
comfort  against  the  crushing  loneliness  of  the  night. 
It  kept  her  up,  made  her  walk  on  with  a  sort  of 
pride,  as  if  she  had  got  the  best  of  Fate.  He  was 
hers  for  ever  now,  in  spite  of  anything  that  could 
be  done.  She  did  not  even  think  what  she  would 
say  when  she  got  in.  She  came  to  the  avenue,  and 
passed  up  it  still  in  a  sort  of  dream.  Her  uncle  was 
standing  before  the  porch;  she  could  hear  his 
mutterings.  She  moved  out  of  the  shadow  of  the 
trees,  went  straight  up  to  him,  and,  looking  in  his 
perturbed  face,  said  calmly: 

"Cyril  asked  me  to  say  good-bye  to  you  all. 
Uncle.     Goodnight!" 

"But,  I  say,  Nollie — ^look  here — you !" 

She  had  passed  on.  She  went  up  to  her  room. 
There,  by  the  door,  her  aunt  was  standing,  and  would 
have  kissed  her.     She  drew  back: 

"No,  Auntie.  Not  to-night!"  And,  slipping 
by,  she  locked  her  door. 

Bob  and  Thirza  Pierson,  meeting  in  their  own 
room,  looked  at  each  other  askance.  Rehef  at  their 
niece's  safe  return  was  confused  by  other  emotions. 
Bob  Pierson  expressed  his  first: 

"Phew!  I  was  beginning  to  think  we  should 
have  to  drag  the  river.    What  girls  are  coming  to !" 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  55 

"It's  the  war,  Bob." 

"I  didn't  like  her  face,  old  girl.  I  don't  know 
what  it  was,  but  I  didn't  like  her  face." 

Neither  did  Thirza,  but  she  would  not  admit  it, 
and  encourage  Bob  to  take  it  to  heart.  He  took 
things  so  hardly,  and  with  such  a  noise ! 

She  only  said:  "Poor  young  things!  I  suppose 
it  will  be  a  relief  to  Edward!" 

"I  love  NoUie!"  said  Bob  Pierson  suddenly. 
"She's  an  affectionate  creature.  D — n  it,  I'm 
sorry  about  this.  It's  not  so  bad  for  young  Mor- 
land;  he's  got  the  excitement — though  I  shouldn't 
like  to  be  leaving  NoUie,  if  I  were  young  again. 
Thank  God,  neither  of  our  boys  are  engaged.  By 
George !  when  I  think  of  them  out  there,  and  my- 
self here,  I  feel  as  if  the  top  of  my  head  would 
come  off.  And  those  pohtician  chaps  spouting 
away  in  every  country — how  they  can  have  the 
cheek!" 

Thirza  looked  at  him  anxiously. 

"And  no  dinner!"  he  said  suddenly.  "What 
d'you  think  they've  been  doing  with  themselves?" 

"Holding  each  other's  hands,  poor  dears !  D'you 
know  what  time  it  is.  Bob?    Nearly  one  o'clock." 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  I've  had  a  wretched  eve- 
ning. Get  to  bed,  old  girl.  You'll  be  fit  for  noth- 
ing." 

He  was  soon  asleep,  but  Thirza  lay  awake,  not 
exactly  worrying,  for  that  was  not  her  nature,  but 
seeing  Noel's  face,  pale,  languid,  passionate,  pos- 
sessed by  memory. 


VI 


Noel  reached  her  father's  house  next  day  late 
in  the  afternoon.  There  was  a  letter  in  the  hall 
for  her.     She  tore  it  open,  and  read: 

"My  darling  Love, 

"I  got  back  all  right,  and  am  posting  this  at  once  to  tell 
you  we  shall  pass  through  London,  and  go  from  Charing 
Cross,  I  expect  about  nine  o'clock  to-night.  I  shall  look  out 
for  you,  there,  in  case  you  are  up  in  time.  Every  minute  I 
think  of  you,  and  of  last  night.    Oh !  Noel ! 

"  Your  devoted  lover, 

"C." 

She  looked  at  the  wrist- watch  which,  like  every 
other  little  patriot,  she  possessed.  Past  seven !  If 
she  waited,  Gratian  or  her  father  would  seize  on 
her. 

"Take  my  things  up,  Dinah.  I've  got  a  head- 
ache from  travelling;  I'm  going  to  walk  it  off. 
Perhaps  I  shan't  be  in  till  past  nine  or  so.  Give 
my  love  to  them  all." 

"Oh,  Miss  Noel,  you  can't " 

But  Noel  was  gone.  She  walked  towards  Charing 
Cross;  and,  to  kill  time,  went  into  a  restaurant  and 
had  that  simple  repast,  coffee  and  a  bim,  which 
those  in  love  would  always  take  if  Society  did  not 

56 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  57 

forcibly  feed  them  on  other  things.  Eating  was 
ridiculous  to  her.  She  sat  there  in  the  midst  of  a 
perfect  hive  of  creatures  eating  hideously.  The 
place  was  shaped  like  a  modem  prison,  having  tiers 
of  gallery  round  an  open  space,  and  in  the  air  was 
the  smell  of  food  and  the  clatter  of  plates  and  the 
music  of  a  band.  There  were  men  in  khaki  every- 
where, and  Noel  glanced  from  form  to  form  to  see 
if  by  chance  one  might  be  that  which  represented, 
for  her,  Life  and  the  British  Army.  At  half-past 
eight  she  went  out  and  made  her  way  through  the 
crowd,  still  mechanically  searching  '  khaki '  for  what 
she  wanted;  and  it  was  perhaps  fortunate  that 
there  was  about  her  face  and  walk  something  which 
touched  people.  At  the  station  she  went  up  to  an 
old  porter,  and,  putting  a  shilling  into  his  aston- 
ished hand,  asked  him  to  find  out  for  her  whence 
Morland's  regiment  would  start.  He  came  back 
presently,  and  said: 

"Come  with  me,  miss." 

Noel  went.  He  was  rather  lame,  had  grey  whisk- 
ers, and  a  ghostly  thin  resemblance  to  her  uncle 
Bob,  which  perhaps  had  been  the  reason  why  she 
had  chosen  him. 

"Brother  goin'  out,  miss?" 

Noel  nodded. 

"Ah !  It's  a  crool  war.  I  shan't  be  sorry  when 
it's  over.  Coin'  out  and  comin'  in,  we  see  some 
sad  sights  'ere.  Wonderful  spirit  they've  got,  too. 
I  never  look  at  the  clock  now  but  what  I  think: 
'There  you  go,  slow-coach!    I'd  like  to  set  you  on 


58  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

to  the  day  the  boys  come  back ! '  When  I  puts  a  bag 
in:  'Another  for  'ell,'  I  thmks.  And  so  it  is,  miss, 
from  all  I  can  'ear.  I've  got  a  son  out  there  meself. 
It's  'ere  they'll  come  along.  You  stand  quiet  and 
keep  a  lookout,  and  you'll  get  a  few  minutes  with 
him  when  he's  done  with  'is  men.  I  wouldn't  move, 
if  I  were  you;  he'll  come  to  you,  all  right — can't 
miss  you,  there."  And,  looking  at  her  face,  he 
thought:  'Astonishin'  w^hat  a  lot  o'  brothers  go. 
Wot  oh !  Poor  little  missy !  A  httle  lady,  too. 
Wonderful  collected  she  is.  It's  'ard ! '  And  try- 
ing to  find  something  consoling  to  sa}",  he  mumbled 
out:  ''You  couldn't  be  in  a  better  place  for  seein' 
'im  off.  Good  night,  miss;  anything  else  I  can  do 
for  you?" 

"No,  thank  you;  you're  very  kind." 

He  looked  back  once  or  twice  at  her  blue-clad 
figure  standing  very  still.  He  had  left  her  against 
a  little  oasis  of  piled-up  empty  milk-cans,  far  down 
the  platform  where  a  few  civilians  in  similar  case 
were  scattered.  The  trainway  was  empty  as  yet. 
In  the  grey  immensity  of  the  station  and  the  tur- 
moil of  its  noise,  she  felt  neither  lonely  nor  con- 
scious of  others  waiting;  too  absorbed  in  the  one 
thought  of  seeing  him  and  touching  him  again. 
The  empty  train  began  backing  in,  stopped,  and 
telescoped  with  a  series  of  httle  clattering  bangs, 
backed  on  again,  and  subsided  to  rest.  Noel  turned 
her  eyes  towards  the  station  archways.  Already 
she  felt  tremulous,  as  though  the  regiment  were 
sending  before  it  the  vibration  of  its  march. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  59 

She  had  not  as  yet  seen  a  troop-tram  start,  and 
vague  images  of  brave  array,  of  a  flag  fluttering, 
and  the  stir  of  drums,  beset  her.  Suddenly  she  saw 
a  brown  swirling  mass  down  there  at  the  very  edge, 
out  of  which  a  thin  brown  trickle  emerged  towards 
her;  no  sound  of  music,  no  waved  flag.  She  had 
a  longing  to  rush  down  to  the  barrier,  but  remem- 
bering the  words  of  the  porter,  stayed  where  she 
was,  with  her  hands  tightly  squeezed  together.  The 
trickle  became  a  stream,  a  flood,  the  head  of  which 
began  to  reach  her.  With  a  turbulence  of  voices, 
sunburnt  men,  burdened  up  to  the  nose,  passed, 
with  rifles  jutting  at  all  angles;  she  strained  her 
eyes,  staring  into  that  stream  as  one  might  into  a 
walking  wood,  to  isolate  a  single  tree.  Her  head 
reeled  with  the  strain  of  it,  and  the  effort  to  catch 
his  voice  among  the  hubbub  of  all  those  cheery, 
common,  happy-go-lucky  sounds.  Some  who  saw 
her  clucked  their  tongues,  some  went  by  silent, 
others  seemed  to  scan  her  as  though  she  might  be 
what  they  were  looking  for.  And  ever  the  stream 
and  the  hubbub  melted  into  the  train,  and  yet  came 
pouring  on.  And  still  she  waited  motionless,  with 
an  awful  fear.  How  could  he  ever  find  her,  or  she 
him?  Then  she  saw  that  others  of  those  waiting 
had  found  their  men.  And  the  longing  to  rush  up 
and  down  the  platform  almost  overcame  her;  but 
still  she  waited.  And  suddenly  she  saw  him  with 
two  other  officer  boys,  close  to  the  carriages,  coming 
slowly  down  towards  her.  She  stood  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  his  face;  they  passed,  and  she  nearly  cried 


6o  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

out.  Then  he  turned,  broke  away  from  the  other 
two,  and  came  straight  to  her.  He  had  seen  her 
before  she  had  seen  him.  He  was  very  flushed,  had 
a  httle  fixed  frown  between  his  blue  eyes  and  a  set 
jaw.  They  stood  looking  at  each  other,  their  hands 
hard  gripped;  all  the  emotion  of  last  night  welling 
up  within  them,  so  that  to  speak  would  have  been 
to  break  down.  The  milk-cans  formed  a  kind  of 
shelter,  and  they  stood  so  close  together  that  none 
could  see  their  faces.  Noel  was  the  first  to  master 
her  power  of  speech;  her  words  came  out,  dainty 
as  ever,  through  trembling  lips: 

"Write  to  me  as  much  as  ever  you  can,  Cyril. 
I'm  going  to  be  a  nurse  at  once.  And  the  first 
leave  you  get,  I  shall  come  to  you — don't  forget.'* 

"Forget!  Move  a  httle  back,  darling;  they 
can't  see  us  here.  Kiss  me!"  She  moved  back, 
thrust  her  face  forward  so  that  he  need  not  stoop, 
and  put  her  lips  up  to  his.  Then,  feehng  that  she 
might  swoon  and  fall  over  among  the  cans,  she  with- 
drew her  mouth,  leaving  her  forehead  against  his 
lips.     He  murmured: 

"Was  it  all  right  when  you  got  in  last  night ?'* 

"Yes;  I  said  good-bye  for  you." 

"Oh!  Noel — I've  been  afraid — I  oughtn't — I 
oughtn't " 

"Yes,  yes;  nothing  can  take  you  from  me 
now." 

"You  have  got  pluck.    More  than  I.'* 

A  long  whistle  sounded.  Morland  grasped  her 
hands  convulsively: 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  6i 

"Good-bye,  my  little  wife!  Don't  fret.  Good- 
bye !    I  must  go.     God  bless  you,  Noel !" 

"I  love  you." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  just  another  moment, 
then  she  took  her  hands  from  his  and  stood  back  in 
the  shadow  of  the  milk-cans,  rigid,  following  him 
with  her  eyes  till  he  was  lost  in  the  train. 

Every  carriage  window  was  full  of  those  brown 
figures  and  red-brown  faces,  hands  were  waving 
vaguely,  voices  calling  vaguely,  here  and  there  one 
cheered;  someone  leaning  far  out  started  to  sing: 
'If  auld  acquaintance — '  But  Noel  stood  quite 
still  in  the  shadow  of  the  milk-cans,  her  lips  drawn 
in,  her  hands  hard  clenched  in  front  of  her;  and 
young  Morland  at  his  window  gazed  back  at 
her.  .  .  . 

How  she  came  to  be  sitting  in  Trafalgar  Square 
iihe  did  not  know.  Tears  had  formed  a  mist  be- 
tween her  and  all  that  seething,  summer-evening 
crowd.  Her  eyes  mechanically  followed  the  wan- 
dering search-lights,  those  new  milky  ways,  quar- 
tering the  heavens  and  leading  nowhere.  All  was 
wonderfully  beautiful,  the  sky  a  deep  dark  blue, 
the  moonlight  whitening  the  spire  of  St.  Martin's, 
and  everywhere  endowing  the  great  blocked-out 
buildings  with  dream-hfe.  Even  the  hons  had  come 
to  Ufe,  and  stared  out  over  this  moonlit  desert  of 
little  human  figures  too  small  to  be  worth  the 
stretching  out  of  a  paw.     She  sat  there,   aching 


62  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

dreadfully,  as  if  the  longing  of  every  bereaved  heart 
in  aU  the  town  had  settled  in  her.  She  felt  it  to- 
night a  thousand  times  worse;  for,  last  night  she 
had  been  drugged  on  the  new  sensation  of  love  tri- 
umphantly fulfilled.  Now  she  felt  as  if  life  had 
placed  her  in  the  comer  of  a  huge  silent  room, 
blown  out  the  flame  of  joy,  and  locked  the  door. 
A  little  dry  sob  came  from  her.  Oh !  the  hay-fields 
and  Cyril,  with  shirt  unbuttoned  at  the  neck, 
pitching  hay  and  gazing  at  her  while  she  dabbled 
her  fork  in  the  thin  leavings.  Oh !  the  bright  river, 
and  their  boat  grounded  on  the  shallows,  and  the 
swallows  flitting  over  them !  And  that  long  dance, 
with  the  feel  of  his  hand  between  her  shoulder- 
blades!  Memories  so  sweet  and  sharp  that  she 
almost  cried  out.  She  saw  again  their  dark  grassy 
courtyard  in  the  Abbey,  and  the  white  owl  flying 
over  them.  The  white  owl!  Flying  there  again 
to-night,  with  no  lovers  on  the  grass  below!  She 
could  only  picture  Cyril  now  as  a  brown  atom  in 
that  swirhng  brown  flood  of  men,  flowing  to  a  huge 
brown  sea.  Those  cruel  minutes  on  the  platform, 
when  she  had  searched  and  searched  the  walking 
wood  for  her  one  tree,  seemed  to  have  burned  them- 
selves into  her  eyes.  Cyril  was  lost,  she  could  not 
single  him  out,  aU  blurred  among  those  thousand 
other  shapes.  And  suddenly  she  thought:  *And  I 
— I'm  lost  to  him;  he's  never  seen  me  at  home, 
never  seen  me  in  London;  he  won't  be  able  to  imag- 
ine me.  It's  all  in  the  past,  only  the  past — for 
both  of  us.     Is  there  anybody  so  unhappy?'    And 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  63 

the  town's  voices — ^wheels,  and  passing  feet,  whistles, 
talk,  laughter — seemed  to  answer  callously:  'Not 
one.'  She  looked  at  her  wrist- watch;  like  his,  it 
had  luminous  hands.  'Half -past  ten'  was  green- 
ishly  imprinted  there.  She  got  up  in  dismay. 
They  would  think  she  was  lost,  or  run  over,  or  some- 
thing silly !  She  could  not  iind  an  empty  taxi,  and 
began  to  walk,  uncertain  of  her  way  at  night.  At 
last  she  stopped  a  policeman,  and  said: 

"Which  is  the  way  towards  Bloomsbury,  please; 
I  can't  find  a  taxi."  The  man  looked  at  her,  and 
took  time  to  think  it  over;  then  he  said: 

"They're  linin'  up  for  the  theatres,"  and  looked 
at  her  again.  Something  seemed  to  move  in  his 
mechanism: 

"I'm  goin'  that  way,  miss.  If  you  like,  you  can 
step  along  with  me."    Noel  stepped  along. 

"The  streets  aren't  what  they  ought  to  be,"  the 
poUceman  said.  "What  with  the  darkness,  and  the 
war  turning  the  girls'  heads — you'd  be  surprised 
the  number  of  them  that  comes  out.  It's  the  sol- 
diers, of  course." 

Noel  felt  her  cheeks  burning. 

"I  daresay  you  wouldn't  have  noticed  it,"  the 
policeman  went  on:  "but  this  war's  a  funny  thing. 
The  streets  are  gayer  and  more  crowded  at  night 
than  I've  ever  seen  them;  it's  a  fair  picnic  all  the 
time.  What  we're  goin'  to  settle  down  to  when 
peace  comes,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  you  find  it 
quiet  enough  up  your  way,  miss?" 

"Yes,"  said  Noel;  "quite  quiet." 


64  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


ii' 


'No  soldiers  up  in  Bloomsbury.  You  got  anyone 
in  the  Army,  miss?" 

Noel  nodded. 

*'Ah!  It's  anxious  times  for  ladies.  What  with 
the  Zeps,  and  their  brothers  and  all  in  France,  it's 
'arassin'.  I've  lost  a  brother  meseh,  and  I've  got 
a  boy  out  there  in  the  Garden  of  Eden;  his  mother 
carries  on  dreadful  about  him.  What  we  shall 
think  of  it  when  it's  all  over,  I  can't  tell.  These 
Huns  are  a  wicked  tough  lot!" 

Noel  looked  at  him;  a  tall  man,  regular  and  or- 
derly, with  one  of  those  perfectly  decent  faces  so 
often  seen  in  the  London  poHce. 

"I'm  sorry  you've  lost  someone,"  she  said.  "I 
haven't  lost  anyone  very  near,  yet." 

"Well,  let's  'ope  you  won't,  miss.  These  times 
make  you  feel  for  others,  an'  that's  something. 
I've  noticed  a  great  change  in  folks  you'd  never 
think  would  feel  for  anyone.  And  yet  I've  seen 
some  wicked  things  too;  we  do,  in  the  police.  Some 
of  these  English  wives  of  aliens,  and  'armless  little 
German  bakers,  an'  Austrians,  and  what-not:  they 
get  a  crool  time.  It's  their  misfortune,  not  their 
fault,  that's  what  I  think;  and  the  way  they  get 
served — well,  it  makes  you  ashamed  o'  bein'  Eng- 
lish sometimes — ^it  does,  straight.  And  the  women 
are  the  worst.  I  said  to  my  wife  only  last  night,  I 
said:  'They  caU  themselves  Christians,'  I  said,  *but 
for  all  the  charity  that's  in  'em  they  might  as  well 
be  Huns.'  She  couldn't  see  it — not  she!  'WeU, 
why  do  they  drop  bombs?'  she  says.     'Wliat!'  I 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  65 

said,  'those  English  wives  and  bakers  drop  bombs? 
Don't  be  silly,'  I  said.  'They're  as  innocent  as  we.' 
It's  the  innocent  that  gets  punished  for  the  guilty. 
'But  they're  all  spies,'  she  says.  'Oh!'  I  said,  'old 
lady!  Now  really!  At  your  time  of  Ufe!'  But 
there  it  is;  you  can't  get  a  woman  to  see  reason. 
It's  readin'  the  papers.  I  often  think  they  must 
be  written  by  women — ^beggin'  your  pardon,  miss — 
but  reely,  the  'ysterics  and  the  'atred — they're  a 
fair  knock-out.  D'you  find  much  hatred  in  your 
household,  miss?" 

Noel  shook  her  head.  "No;  my  father's  a  clergy- 
man, you  see." 

"Ah!"  said  the  policeman.  And  in  the  glance 
he  bestowed  on  her  could  be  seen  an  added  respect. 

"Of  course,"  he  went  on,  "you're  bound  to  have 
a  sense  of  justice  against  these  Huns;  some  of  their 
ways  of  goin'  on  have  been  above  the  limit.  But 
what  I  always  think  is — of  course  I  don't  say  these 
things — no  use  to  make  yourself  unpopular — but  to 
meself  I  often  think:  Take  'em  man  for  man,  and 
you'd  find  'em  much  the  same  as  we  are,  I  daresay. 
It's  the  vicious  way  they're  brought  up,  of  actin' 
in  the  mass,  that's  made  'em  such  a  crool  lot.  I  see 
a  good  bit  of  crowds  in  my  profession,  and  I've  a 
very  low  opinion  of  them.  Crowds  are  the  most 
blunderin'  bhghted  things  that  ever  was.  They're 
like  an  angry  woman  with  a  bandage  over  her  eyes, 
an'  you  can't  have  anything  more  dangerous  than 
that.  These  Germans,  it  seems,  are  always  in  a 
crowd.    They  get  a  state  o'  mind  read  out  to  them 


66  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

by  Bill  Kaser  and  all  that  bloody-minded  lot,  an* 
they  never  stop  to  think  for  themselves." 

"I  suppose  they'd  be  shot  if  they  did,"  said  Noel. 

"Well,  there  is  that,"  said  the  poHceman  reflec- 
tively. "They've  brought  discipline  to  an  'igh 
pitch,  no  doubt.  An'  if  you  ask  me," — he  lowered 
his  voice  till  it  was  almost  lost  in  his  chin-strap — 
*' we'll  be  runnin'  'em  a  good  second  'ere,  before  long. 
The  things  we  'ave  to  protect  now  are  gettin'  beyond 
a  joke.  There's  the  City  against  lights,  there's  the 
streets  against  darkness,  there's  the  aliens,  there's 
the  ahens'  shops,  there's  the  Belgians,  there's  the 
British  wives,  there's  the  soldiers  against  the  women, 
there's  the  women  against  the  soldiers,  there's  the 
Peace  Party,  there's  'orses  against  croolty,  there's  a 
Cabinet  Minister  every  now  an'  then;  and  now 
we've  got  these  Conchies.  And,  mind  you,  they 
haven't  raised  our  pay;  no  war  wages  in  the  poUce. 
So  far  as  I  can  see,  there's  only  one  good  result  of 
the  war — burglaries  are  off.  But  there  again,  you 
wait  a  bit  and  see  if  we  don't  have  a  prize  crop  of 
'em,  or  my  name's  not  'Arris." 

"You  must  have  an  awfully  exciting  life!"  said 
Noel. 

The  policeman  looked  down  at  her  sideways,  with- 
out lowering  his  face,  as  only  a  poHceman  can,  and 
said  indulgently: 

"We're  used  to  it,  you  see;  there's  no  excite- 
ment in  what  you're  used  to.  They  find  that  in 
the  trenches,  I'm  told.  Take  our  seamen — there's 
lota  of  'em  been  blown  up  over  and  over  again,  and 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  67 

there  they  go  and  sign  on  again  next  day.  That's 
where  the  Germans  make  their  mistake !  England 
in  war-time !  I  think  a  lot,  you  know,  on  my  go; 
you  can't  'elp  it — the  mind  will  work — an'  the  more 
I  think,  the  more  I  see  the  fightin'  spirit  in  the 
people.  We  don't  make  a  fuss  about  it  like  Bill 
Kaser.  But  you  watch  a  Httle  shopman,  one  o* 
those  fellows  who's  had  his  house  bombed;  you 
watch  the  way  he  looks  at  the  mess — sort  of  dis- 
gusted. You  watch  his  face,  and  you  see  he's  got 
his  teeth  into  it.  You  watch  one  of  our  Tommies 
on  'is  crutches,  with  the  sweat  pourin'  off  his  fore- 
head an'  'is  eyes  all  strainy,  stumpin'  along — that 
gives  you  an  idea !  I  pity  these  Peace  fellows,  reely 
I  pity  them;  they  don't  know  what  they're  up 
againsL  I  expect  there's  times  when  you  wish  you 
was  a  man,  don't  you,  miss?  I'm  sure  there's 
times  when  I  feel  I'd  like  to  go  in  the  trenches. 
That's  the  worst  o'  my  job;  you  can't  be  a  human 
bein' — not  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word.  You 
mustn't  let  your  passions  rise,  you  mustn't  drink, 
you  mustn't  talk;  it's  a  narrow  walk  o'  life.  Well, 
here  you  are,  miss;  your  Square's  the  next  tumin' 
to  the  right.  Good  night,  and  thank  you  for  your 
conversation." 

Noel  held  out  her  hand.    "  Good  night !"  she  said. 

The  pohceman  took  her  hand  with  a  queer,  flat- 
tered embarrassment. 

"Good  night,  miss,"  he  said  again.  "I  see  you've 
got  a  trouble;  and  I'm  sure  I  hope  it'll  turn  out  for 
the  best." 


68  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Noel  gave  his  huge  hand  a  squeeze;  her  eyes  had 
filled  with  tears,  and  she  turned  quickly  up  towards 
the  Square,  where  a  dark  figure  was  coming  towards 
her,  in  whom  she  recognised  her  father.  His  face 
was  worn  and  harassed;  he  walked  irresolutely,  like 
a  man  who  has  lost  something. 

'' Nolhe ! "  he  said.  "Thank  God ! "  In  his  voice 
was  an  infinite  rehef.  "My  child,  where  have  you 
been?" 

"It's  all  right,  Daddy.  Cyril  has  just  gone  to  the 
front.  I've  been  seeing  him  off  from  Charing 
Cross." 

Pierson  sHpped  his  arm  round  her.  They  entered 
the  house  without  speaking.  .  .  . 

3§ 

By  the  rail  of  his  transport,  as  far — about  two 
feet — as  he  could  get  from  anyone,  Cyril  Morland 
stood  watching  Calais,  a  dream  city,  brighten  out 
of  the  heat  and  grow  soHd.  He  could  hear  the  guns 
already,  the  voice  of  his  new  life — talking  in  the 
distance.  It  came  with  its  strange  excitement  into 
a  being  held  by  soft  and  marvellous  memories,  by 
one  long  vision  of  Noel  and  the  moonUt  grass,  un- 
der the  dark  Abbey  wall.  This  moment  of  passage 
from  wonder  to  wonder  was  quite  too  much  for  a 
boy  unused  to  introspection,  and  he  stood  staring 
stupidly  at  Calais,  while  the  thunder  of  his  new  life 
came  rolling  in  on  that  passionate  moonlit  dream. 


VII 

After  the  emotions  of  those  last  three  days  Pier- 
son  woke  with  the  feeling  a  ship  must  have  when 
it  makes  landfall.  Such  rehefs  are  natural,  and  as 
a  rule  delusive;  for  events  are  as  much  the  parents 
of  the  future  as  they  were  the  children  of  the  past. 
To  be  at  home  with  both  his  girls,  and  resting — for 
his  hoHday  would  not  be  over  for  ten  days — was 
like  old  times.  Now  George  was  going  on  so  well 
Gratian  would  be  herself  again ;  now  Cyril  Morland 
was  gone  Noel  would  lose  that  sudden  youthful  love 
fever.  Perhaps  in  two  or  three  days  if  George  con- 
tinued to  progress,  one  might  go  off  with  Noel  some- 
where for  one's  last  week.  In  the  meantime  the  old 
house,  w^herein  was  gathered  so  much  remembrance 
of  happiness  and  pain,  was  just  as  restful  as  any- 
where else,  and  the  companionship  of  his  girls 
would  be  as  sweet  as  on  any  of  their  past  ram- 
bling holidays  in  Wales  or  Ireland.  And  that  first 
morning  of  perfect  idleness — for  no  one  knew  he 
was  back  in  London — ^pottering,  and  playing  the 
piano  in  the  homely  drawing-room  where  nothing  to 
speak  of  was  changed  since  his  wife's  day,  was  very 
pleasant.  He  had  not  yet  seen  the  girls,  for  Noel 
did  not  come  down  to  breakfast,  and  Gratian  was 
with  George. 

Discovery  that  there  was  stiU  a  barrier  between 

69 


70  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

him  and  them  came  but  slowly  in  the  next  two  daj-s. 
He  would  not  acknowledge  it,  yet  it  was  there,  in 
their  voices,  in  their  movements — rather  an  absence 
of  something  old  than  the  presence  of  something 
new.  It  was  as  if  each  had  said  to  him:  'We  love 
you,  but  you  are  not  in  our  secrets — and  you  must 
not  be,  for  you  would  try  to  destroy  them.'  They 
showed  no  fear  of  him,  but  seemed  to  be  pushing 
him  unconsciously  aw^ay,  lest  he  should  restrain  or 
alter  what  was  very  dear  to  them.  When  people 
are  very  fond  of  each  other,  this  is  what  happens  so 
soon  as  their  natures  have  set  foot  on  definitely 
diverging  paths.  The  closer  the  affection,  the  more 
watchful  they  are  against  interference  by  that  affec- 
tion. Noel  had  a  look  on  her  face,  half  dazed,  half 
proud,  which  touched,  yet  vexed  him.  What  had 
he  done  to  forfeit  her  confidence — surely,  surely  she 
must  see  how  natural  and  right  his  opposition  had 
been !  He  made  one  great  effort  to  show  the  real 
sympathy  he  felt  for  her.  But  she  only  said:  "I 
can't  talk  of  Cyril,  Daddy;  I  simply  can't!"  And 
he,  who  easily  shrank  into  his  shell,  could  not  but 
acquiesce  in  her  reserve. 

With  Gratian  it  was  different.  There  he  knew 
what  an  encounter  was  before  him;  a  struggle  be- 
tween him  and  her  husband — ^for  characteristically 
he  set  the  change  in  her,  the  defection  of  her  faith, 
down  to  George,  not  to  spontaneous  thought  and 
feeling  in  herself.  He  dreaded  and  yet  looked  for- 
ward to  this  encounter.  It  came  on  the  third  day, 
when  Laird  was  up,  lying  on  that  very  sofa  where 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  71 

Pierson  had  sat  listening  to  Gratian's  confession  of 
disbelief.  Except  for  putting  in  his  head  to  say- 
good  morning,  he  had  not  yet  seen  his  son-in-law. 
The  young  doctor  could  not  look  fragile,  the  build  of 
his  face,  with  that  jaw  and  those  heavy  cheek-bones 
was  too  much  against  it,  but  there  was  about  him 
enough  of  the  look  of  having  come  through  a  hard 
fight  to  give  Pierson's  heart  a  httle  squeeze. 

"Well,  George,"  he  said,  "you  gave  us  a  dread- 
ful fright!  I  thank  God's  mercy."  With  that 
haK-mechanical  phrase  he  had  flung  an  uncon- 
scious challenge,  and  Laird  looked  up  whimsically. 
"So  you  really  think  God  merciful,  sir?" 
"Don't  let  us  argue,  George;  you're  not  strong 
enough." 

"Oh !  I'm  pining  for  something  to  bite  on." 
Pierson  looked  at  Gratian,  and  said  softly: 
"God's  mercy  is  infinite,  and  you  know  it  is." 
Laird  also  looked  at  Gratian,  before  he  answered : 
"God's  mercy  is  surely  the  amount  of  mercy  man 
has  succeeded  in  arriving  at.    How  much  that  is, 
this  war  teUs  you,  sir." 

Pierson  flushed.  "I  don't  follow  you,"  he  said 
painfully.  "How  can  you  say  such  things,  when 
you  yourself  are  only  just —  No;  I  refuse  to  argue, 
George;  I  refuse." 

Laird  stretched  out  his  hand  to  his  wife,  v,ho 
came  to  him,  and  stood  clasping  it  with  her  own. 

"WeU,  /'w  going  to  argue,"  he  said;  "I'm  simply 
bursting  with  it.  I  chaUenge  you,  sir,  to  show  me 
where  there's  any  sign  of  altruistic  pity,  except  in 


72  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

man.     Mother    love    doesn't    count — mother    and 
child  are  too  much  one." 

The  curious  smile  had  come  already,  on  both 
their  faces. 

"My  dear  George,  is  not  man  the  highest  work  of 
God,  and  mercy  the  highest  quahty  in  man?" 

"Not  a  bit.  If  geological  time  be  taken  as 
twenty-four  hours,  man's  existence  on  earth  so  far 
equals  just  two  seconds  of  it;  after  a  few  more 
seconds,  when  man  has  been  frozen  off  the  earth, 
geological  time  udll  stretch  for  as  long  again,  before 
the  earth  bumps  into  something,  and  becomes 
nebula  once  more.  God's  hands  haven't  been  par- 
ticularly full,  sir,  have  they — two  seconds  out  of 
twenty-four  hours — if  man  is  His  pet  concern? 
And  as  to  mercy  being  the  highest  quality  in  man, 
that's  only  a  modern  fasliion  of  talking.  Man's 
highest  quahty  is  the  sense  of  proportion,  for  that's 
what  keeps  him  alive;  and  mercy,  logically  pur- 
sued, would  kill  him  off.  It's  a  sort  of  a  luxury  or 
by-product." 

"George !  You  can  have  no  music  in  your  soul ! 
Science  is  such  a  little  thing,  if  you  could  only  see." 

"Show  me  a  bigger,  sir." 

"Faith." 

"In  what?" 

"In  what  has  been  revealed  to  us." 
'Ah !    There  it  is  again !    By  whom — how?" 
By  God  Himself — through  our  Lord." 

A  faint  flush  rose  in  Laird's  yellow  face,  and  his 
eyes  brightened. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  73 

"Christ/*  he  said,  "if  He  existed,  which  some 
people,  as  you  know,  doubt,  was  a  very  beautiful 
character;  there  have  been  others.  But  to  ask  us 
to  beUeve  in  His  supematurahiess  or  divinity  at 
this  time  of  day  is  to  ask  us  to  walk  through  the 
world  blindfold.  And  that's  what  you  do,  don't 
you?" 

Again  Pierson  looked  at  his  daughter's  face. 
She  was  standing  quite  still,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
her  husband.  Somehow  he  was  aware  that  all 
these  words  of  the  sick  man's  were  for  her  benefit. 
Anger,  and  a  sort  of  despair  rose  within  him,  and  he 
said  painfully : 

"I  cannot  explain.  There  are  things  that  I 
can't  make  clear,  because  you  are  wiKully  blind  to 
all  that  I  believe  in.  For  what  do  you  imagine  we 
are  fighting  this  great  war,  if  it  is  not  to  re-estab- 
lish the  beHef  in  love  as  the  guiding  principle  of 
Hfe?" 

Laird  shook  his  head.  "We  are  fighting  to  re- 
dress the  balance,  which  was  in  danger  of  being 
lost." 

"The  balance  of  power?" 

"Heavens ! — ^no !    The  balance  of  philosophy." 

Pierson  smiled.  "That  sounds  very  clever, 
George;  but  again,  I  don't  follow  you." 

"The  balance  between  the  sayings:  'Might  is 
Right,'  and  'Right  is  Might.'  They're  both  half- 
truths,  but  the  first  was  beating  the  other  out  of  the 
field.  All  the  rest  of  it  is  cant,  you  know.  And 
by  the  way,  sir,  your  Church  is  soHd  for  punish- 


74  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

ment  of  the  evil-doer.  Where's  mercy  there? 
Either  its  God  is  not  merciful,  or  else  it  doesn't 
beheve  in  its  God." 

"Just  punishment  does  not  preclude  mercy, 
George." 

"It  does  in  Nature." 

"Ah!  Nature,  George — always  Nature.  God 
transcends  Nature." 

"Then  why  does  He  give  it  a  free  rein?  A  man 
too  fond  of  drink,  or  women — how  much  mercy 
does  he  get  from  Nature?  His  overindulgence 
brings  its  exact  equivalent  of  penalty;  let  him  pray 
to  God  as  much  as  he  likes — unless  he  alters  his 
ways  he  gets  no  mercy.  If  he  does  alter  his  ways, 
he  gets  no  mercy  either;  he  just  gets  Nature's  due 
reward.  We  English  who  have  neglected  brain  and 
education — ^how  much  mercy  are  we  getting  in  this 
war?  Mercy's  a  man-made  ornament,  disease,  or 
luxury — call  it  what  you  will.  Except  that,  I've 
nothing  to  say  against  it.  On  the  contrary,  1  am  aU 
for  it." 

Once  more  Pierson  looked  at  his  daughter.  Some- 
thing in  her  face  hurt  him — the  silent  intensity  with 
which  she  was  hanging  on  her  husband's  words,  the 
eager  search  of  her  eyes.  And  he  turned  to  the 
door,  saying: 

"This  is  bad  for  you,  George." 

He  saw  Gratian  put  her  hand  on  her  husband's 
forehead,  and  thought  jealously:  'How  can  I  save 
my  poor  girl  from  this  infidelity?  Are  my  twenty 
years  of  care  to  go  for  nothing,  against  this  modem 
spirit  ? ' 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  75 

Down  in  his  study,  the  words  went  through  his 
mind:  "Holy,  holy,  holy,  Merciful  and  Mighty!" 
And  going  to  the  little  piano  in  the  comer,  he  opened 
it,  and  began  playing  the  hymn.  He  played  it 
softly  on  the  shabby  keys  of  this  thirty-year  old 
friend,  which  had  been  with  him  since  College  days; 
and  sang  it  softly  in  his  worn  voice.  A  sound  made 
liim  look  up.  Gratian  had  come  in.  She  put  her 
riand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said: 

"I  know  it  hurts  you,  Dad.  But  we've  got  to 
find  out  for  ourselves,  haven't  we?  All  the  time 
you  and  George  were  talking,  I  felt  that  you  didn't 
see  that  it's  I  who've  changed.  It's  not  what  he 
thinks,  but  what  I've  come  to  think  of  my  own  ac- 
cord. I  wish  you'd  understand  that  I've  got  a 
mind  of  my  own,  Dad." 

Pierson  looked  up  with  amazement. 

"Of  course  you  have  a  mind." 

Gratian  shook  her  head.  "No,  you  thought  my 
mind  was  yours;  and  now  you  think  it's  George's. 
But  it's  my  own.  When  you  were  my  age  weren't 
you  trying  hard  to  find  the  truth  yourself,  and  dif- 
fering from  your  father?" 

Pierson  did  not  answer.  He  could  not  remember. 
It  was  like  stirring  a  stick  amongst  a  drift  of  last 
year's  leaves,  to  awaken  but  a  dry  rustling,  a  vague 
sense  of  unsubstantiality.  Searched?  No  doubt 
he  had  searched,  but  the  process  had  brought  him 
nothing.  Elnowledge  was  all  smoke!  Emotional 
faith  alone  was  truth — reality ! 

"Ah,  Gracie!"  he  said,  "search  if  you  must,  but 


76  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

where  will  you  find  bottom?  The  well  is  too  deep 
for  us.  You  will  come  back  to  Gk)d,  my  child,  when 
you're  tired  out;  the  only  rest  is  there." 

"I  don't  want  to  rest.  Some  people  search  all 
their  Hves,  and  die  searching.    Why  shouldn't  I?" 

"You  will  be  most  unhappy,  my  child." 

"If  I'm  unhappy.  Dad,  it'll  be  because  the  world's 
imhappy.  I  don't  beheve  it  ought  to  be;  I  thint 
it  only  is,  because  it  shuts  its  eyes." 

Pierson  got  up.    "You  think  I  shut  my  eyes?" 

Gratian  nodded. 

"If  I  do,  it  is  because  there  is  no  other  way  tci 
happiness." 

"Are  you  happy.  Dad?" 

"As  happy  as  my  nature  will  let  me  be.  I  mis! 
your  mother.    If  I  lose  you  and  Noel " 

"Oh,  but  we  won't  let  you !" 

Pierson  smiled.     "My  dear,"  he  said,  "I  think 
have!" 


VIII 


Some  wag,  with  a  bit  of  chalk,  had  written  the 
word  'Peace'  on  three  successive  doors  of  a  little 
street  opposite  Buckingham  Palace. 

It  caught  the  eye  of  Jimmy  Fort,  limping  home 
to  his  rooms  from  a  very  late  discussion  at  his  Club, 
and  twisted  his  lean  shaven  hps  into  a  sort  of  smile. 
He  was  one  of  those  rolling-stone  EngUshmen, 
whose  early  Uves  are  spent  in  all  parts  of  the  world, 
and  in  all  kinds  of  physical  conflict — a  man  like  a 
hickory  stick,  taU,  thin,  bolt-upright,  knotty,  hard 
as  nails,  with  a  curved  fighting  back  to  his  head 
and  a  straight  fighting  front  to  his  brown  face. 
His  was  the  type  which  becomes  in  a  generation  or 
so  typically  Colonial  or  American;  but  no  one 
could  possibly  have  taken  Jimmy  Fort  for  anything 
but  an  Enghshman.  Though  he  was  nearly  forty, 
there  was  stiU  something  of  the  boy  in  his  face, 
something  frank  and  curly-headed,  gallant  and  full 
of  steam,  and  his  small  steady  grey  eyes  looked  out 
on  life  with  a  sort  of  combative  humour.  He  was 
stiU  in  uniform,  though  they  had  given  him  up  as 
a  bad  job  after  keeping  him  nine  months  trying  to 
mend  a  wounded  leg  which  would  never  be  sound 
again ;  and  he  was  now  in  the  War  Ofi&ce  in  connec- 
tion with  horses,  about  which  he  knew.  He  did 
not  Uke  it,  having  Hved  too  long  with  all  sorts  and 

77 


78  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

conditions  of  men  who  were  neither  English  nor 
ofi&cial,  a  combination  which  he  found  trying.  His 
life  indeed,  just  now,  bored  him  to  distraction,  and 
he  would  ten  times  rather  have  been  back  in  France. 
This  was  why  he  found  the  word  'Peace'  so  excep- 
tionally tantalising. 

Reaching  his  rooms,  he  threw  off  his  tunic,  to 
whose  stiff  regularity  he  still  had  a  rooted  aver- 
sion; and  pulling  out  a  pipe,  filled  it  and  sat  down 
at  his  window. 

Moonshine  could  not  cool  the  hot  town,  and  it 
seemed  sleeping  badly — the  seven  million  sleepers 
in  their  million  homes.     Sound  lingered  on,  never 
quite  ceased;   the  stale  odours  clung  in  the  narrow 
street  below,   though  a  little  wind  was  creeping 
about  to  sweeten  the  air.     'Curse  the  war!'   he 
thought.     'What  wouldn't  I  give  to  be  sleeping 
out,  instead  of  in  this  damned  city!'    They  who 
slept  in  the  open,  neglecting  morahty,  would  cer- 
tainly have  the  best  of  it  to-night,  for  no  more  dew 
was  faUing  than  fell  into  Jimmy  Fort's  heart  to 
cool  the  fret  of  that  ceaseless  thought :    '  The  war !  . 
The  cursed  war ! '    In  the  unending  rows  of  little  j 
grey  houses,  in  huge  caravanserais,  and  the  man- 
sions of  the  great,  in  villas,  and  high  slum  tene- 
ments;   in  the  government  offices,  and  factories,  , 
and  railway  stations  where  they  worked  all  night ; ' 
in  the  long  hospitals  where  they  lay  in  rows;  in  the 
camp  prisons  of  the  interned;    in  barracks,  work- , 
houses,  palaces — ^no  head,  sleeping  or  waking,  would  I 
be  free  of  that  thought :  '  The  cursed  war ! '    A  spire 

I 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  79 

caught  his  eye,  rising  ghostly  over  the  roofs.  Ah ! 
churches  alone,  void  of  the  human  soul,  would  be 
unconscious !  But  for  the  rest,  even  sleep  wouldn't 
free  them!  Here  a  mother  would  be  whispering 
the  name  of  her  boy;  there  a  merchant  would  snore 
and  dream  he  was  drowning,  weighted  with  gold; 
and  a  wife  would  be  turning,  to  stretch  out  her 
arms  to — no  one;  and  a  wounded  soldier  wake  out 
of  a  dream- trench  with  sweat  on  his  brow;  and  a 
newsvendor  in  his  garret  mutter  hoarsely.  By 
thousands  the  bereaved  would  be  tossing,  stifling 
their  moans;  by  thousands  the  ruined  would  be 
gazing  into  the  dark  future;  and  housewives  strug- 
gling with  sums;  and  soldiers  sleeping  like  logs — 
for  to-morrow  they  died;  and  children  dreaming  of 
them;  and  prostitutes  lying  in  stale  wonder  at  the 
busyness  of  their  lives;  and  joumahsts  sleepmg 
the  sleep  of  the  just.  And  over  them  all,  in  the 
moonhght  that  thought  '  The  cursed  war ! '  would 
flap  black  wings,  like  an  old  crow !  '  If  Christ 
were  real,'  he  mused,  'He'd  reach  that  moon  down, 
and  go  chalking  "Peace"  with  it  on  every  door  of 
every  house,  all  over  Europe.  But  Christ's  not 
real,  and  Hindenburg  and  Harmsworth  are ! '  As 
real  they  were  as  two  great  bulls  he  had  once  seen 
in  South  Africa,  fighting.  He  seemed  to  hear  again 
the  stamp  and  snort  and  crash  of  those  thick  skulls, 
to  see  the  beasts  recoiling  and  driving  at  each  other, 
and  the  httle  red  eyes  of  them.  And  pulling  a 
letter  out  of  his  pocket,  he  read  it  again  by  the  Hght 
of  the  moon: 


So  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"15,  Camelot  Mansions, 

"St.  John's  Wood. 
"Dear  Mr.  Fort, 

*'I  came  across  your  Club  address  to-night,  looking  at 
some  old  letters.  Did  you  know  that  I  was  in  London?  I 
left  Steenbok  when  my  husband  died,  j&ve  years  ago.  I've 
had  a  simply  terrific  time  since.  While  the  German  South 
West  campaign  was  on  I  was  nursing  out  there,  but  came 
back  about  a  year  ago  to  lend  a  hand  here.  It  would  be 
awfully  nice  to  meet  you  again,  if  by  any  chance  you  are 
in  England.  I'm  working  in  a  V.  A.  D.  hospital  in  these 
parts,  but  my  evenings  are  usually  free.  Do  you  remember 
that  moonlit  night  at  grape  harvest?  The  nights  here  aren't 
scented  quite  Hke  that.    Listerine !    Oh !    This  war  I 

"With  all  good  remembrances, 

"Leila  Lynch." 


A  terrific  time!  If  he  did  not  mistake,  Leila 
L3aich  had  always  had  a  terrific  time.  And  he 
smiled,  seeing  again  the  stoep  of  an  old  Dutch  house 
at  High  Constantia,  and  a  woman  sitting  there 
under  the  white  flowers  of  a  sweet-scented  creeper 
— a  pretty  woman,  with  eyes  which  could  put  a 
spell  on  you,  a  woman  he  would  have  got  entangled 
with  if  he  had  not  cut  and  run  for  it !  Ten  years 
ago,  and  here  she  was  again,  refreshing  him  out  of 
the  past.  He  sniffed  the  fragrance  of  the  little  let- 
ter. How  everybody  always  managed  to  work  into 
a  letter  what  they  were  doing  in  the  war!  If  he 
answered  her  he  would  be  sure  to  say:  'Since  I  got 
lamed,  I've  been  at  the  War  Office,  working  on  re- 
mounts, and  a  dull  job  it  is ! '  Leila  Lynch !  Women 
didn't  get  younger,  and  he  suspected  her  of  being 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  8i 

older  than  himself.  But  he  remembered  agreeably 
her  white  shoulders  and  that  turn  of  her  neck  when 
she  looked  at  you  with  those  big  grey  eyes  of  hers. 
Only  a  five-day  acquaintanceship,  but  they  had 
crowded  much  into  it — as  one  did  in  a  strange  land. 
The  episode  had  been  a  green  and  dangerous  spot, 
like  one  of  those  bright  mossy  bits  of  bog  when  you 
were  snipe-shooting,  to  set  foot  on  which  was  to 
let  you  down  up  to  the  neck,  at  least.  Well,  there 
was  none  of  that  danger  now,  for  her  husband  was 
dead — ^poor  chap!  It  would  be  nice,  in  these  dis- 
mal days,  when  nobody  spent  any  time  whatever 
except  in  the  service  of  the  country,  to  improve  his 
powers  of  service  by  a  few  hours'  recreation  in  her 
society.  'What  humbugs  we  are!'  he  thought; 
'to  read  the  newspapers  and  the  speeches  you'd 
believe  everybody  thought  of  nothing  but  how  to 
get  killed  for  the  sake  of  the  future.  Drunk  on 
verbiage!  What  heads  and  mouths  we  shall  all 
have  when  we  wake  up  some  fine  morning  with 
Peace  shining  in  at  the  window !  Ah !  If  only  we 
could;  and  enjoy  ourselves  again ! '  Ajid  he  gazed 
at  the  moon.  She  was  dipping  already,  reeUng 
away  into  the  dawn.  Water  carts  and  street 
sweepers  had  come  out  into  the  glimmer;  sparrows 
twittered  in  the  eaves.  The  city  was  raising  a 
strange  unknown  face  to  the  grey  Hght,  shuttered 
and  deserted  as  Babylon.  Jimmy  Fort  tapped  out! 
his  pipe,  sighed,  and  got  into  bed. 


82  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


Coming  off  duty  at  that  very  moment,  Leila 
Lynch  decided  to  have  her  hour's  walk  before  she 
went  home.  She  was  in  charge  of  two  wards,  and  j 
as  a  rule  took  the  day  watches;  but  some  shght 
upset  had  given  her  this  extra  spell.  She  was, 
therefore,  at  her  worst,  or  perhaps  at  her  best,  after 
eighteen  hours  in  hospital.  Her  cheeks  were  pale, 
and  about  her  eyes  were  little  lines,  normally  in 
hiding.  There  was  in  this  face  a  puzzling  blend  of 
the  soft  and  hard,  for  the  eyes,  the  rather  full  lips, 
and  pale  cheeks,  were  naturally  soft ;  but  they  were 
hardened  by  the  self-containment  which  grows  on 
women  who  have  to  face  life  for  themselves,  and, 
conscious  of  beauty,  intend  to  keep  it,  in  spite  of 
age.  Her  figure  was  contradictory,  also;  its  soft 
modelling  a  Httle  too  rigidified  by  stays.  In  this 
desert  of  the  dawn  she  let  her  long  blue  overcoat 
flap  loose,  and  swung  her  hat  on  a  linger,  so  that 
her  Ught-brown,  touched-up  hair  took  the  morning 
breeze  with  fluffy  freedom.  Though  she  could  not 
see  herseff,  she  appreciated  her  appearance,  swaying 
along  like  that,  past  lonely  trees  and  houses.  A 
pity  there  was  no  one  to  see  her  in  that  round  of 
Regent's  Park,  which  took  her  the  best  part  of  an 
hour,  walking  in  meditation,  enjoying  the  colour 
coming  back  into  the  world,  as  if  especially  for  her. 

There  was  character  in  Leila  Lynch,  and  she  had 
lived  an  interesting  life  from  a  certain  point  of  view. 
In  her  girlhood  she  had  fluttered  the  hearts  of  many 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  83 

besides  Cousin  Edward  Pierson,  and  at  eighteen 
had  made  a  passionate  love  match  with  a  good- 
looking  young  Indian  ci\inan,  named  Fane.  They 
had  loved  each  other  to  a  standstill  in  twelve  months. 
Then  had  begim  five  years  of  petulance,  boredom, 
and  growing  cynicism,  with  increasing  spells  of 
Simla,  and  voyages  home  for  her  health  which  was 
really  harmed  by  the  heat.  All  had  culminated, 
of  course,  in  another  passion  for  a  rifleman  called 
Lynch.  Divorce  had  foUowed  remarriage ;  then  the 
Boer  War,  in  which  he  had  been  badly  wounded. 
She  had  gone  out  and  nursed  him  back  to  half  his 
robust  health,  and,  at  twenty-eight,  taken  up  Hfe 
with  hun  on  an  up-country  farm  in  Cape  Colony. 
This  middle  period  had  lasted  ten  years,  between 
the  lonely  farm  and  an  old  Dutch  house  at  High 
Constantia.  Lynch  was  not  a  bad  fellow,  but,  hke 
most  soldiers  of  the  old  Army,  had  been  most  care- 
fully divested  of  an  aesthetic  sense.  And  it  was 
Leila's  misfortune  to  have  moments  when  an  aes- 
thetic sense  seemed  necessary.  She  had  struggled 
to  overcome  this  weakness,  and  that  other  weak- 
ness of  hers — a  liking  for  man's  admiration;  but 
there  had  certainly  been  intervals  when  she  had 
not  properly  succeeded.  Her  acquaintance  with 
Jimmy  Fort  had  occurred  during  one  of  these  in- 
tervals, and  when  he  went  back  to  England  so 
abruptly,  she  had  been  feehng  very  tenderly  towards 
him.  She  still  remembered  him  with  a  certain 
pleasure.  Before  Lynch  died,  these  'intervals'  had 
been  interrupted  by  a  spell  of  returning  warmth  for 


«4  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

the  invalided  man  to  whom  she  had  joined  her  hfe 
imder  the  romantic  conditions  of  divorce.  He  had 
failed,  of  course,  as  a  farmer,  and  his  death  left  her 
with  nothing  but  her  own  settled  income  of  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  a  year.  Faced  by  the  pros- 
pect of  having  almost  to  make  her  living,  at  thirty- 
eight,  she  felt  but  momentary  dismay — for  she  had 
real  pluck.  Like  many  who  have  played  with 
amateur  theatricals,  she  fancied  herself  as  an  ac- 
tress; but,  after  much  effort,  found  that  only  her 
voice  and  the  perfect  preservation  of  her  legs  were 
appreciated  by  the  discerning  managers  and  pubhc 
of  South  Africa;  and  for  three  chequered  years  she 
made  face  against  fortune  with  the  help  of  them, 
under  an  assumed  name.  What  she  did — keeping 
a  certain  bloom  of  refinement,  was  far  better  than 
many  more  respectable  ladies  would  have  done,  in 
her  shoes.  At  least  she  never  bemoaned  her  're- 
duced circumstances,'  and  if  her  life  was  irregular 
and  had  at  least  three  episodes,  it  was  very  human. 
She  bravely  took  the  rough  with  the  smooth,  never 
lost  the  power  of  enjoying  herself,  and  grew  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  hardships  of  others.  But  she  be- 
came deadly  tired.  When  the  war  broke  out,  re- 
membering that  she  was  a  good  nurse,  she  took  her 
real  name  again  and  a  change  of  occupation.  For 
one  who  liked  to  please  men,  and  to  be  pleased  by 
them,  there  was  a  certain  attraction  about  that  Ufa 
in  war-time;  and  after  two  years  of  it  she  could 
still  appreciate  the  way  her  Tommies  turned  their 
heads  to  look  at  her  when  she  passed  their  beds. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  85 

But  in  a  hard  school  she  had  learned  perfect  self- 
control;  and  though  the  sour  and  puritanical  per- 
ceived her  attraction,  they  knew  her  to  be  forty- 
three.  Besides,  the  soldiers  liked  her;  and  there 
was  little  trouble  in  her  wards.  The  war  moved 
her  in  simple  ways;  for  she  was  patriotic  in  the  di- 
rect fashion  of  her  class.  Her  father  had  been  a 
sailor,  her  husbands  an  official  and  a  soldier;  the 
issue  for  her  was  uncomplicated  by  any  abstract 
meditation.  The  Country  before  everything !  And 
though  she  had  tended  during  those  two  years  so 
many  young  wrecked  bodies,  she  had  taken  it  as 
all  in  the  day's  work,  lavishing  her  sympathy  on  the 
individual,  without  much  general  sense  of  pity  and 
waste.  Yes,  she  had  worked  really  hard,  had  ^done 
her  bit';  but  of  late  she  had  felt  rising  within  her 
the  old  vague  craving  for  'Hfe,'  for  pleasure,  for 
something  more  than  the  mere  negative  admiration 
bestowed  on  her  by  her  'Tommies.'  Those  old  let- 
ters— to  look  them  through  had  been  a  sure  sign  of 
this  vague  craving — had  sharpened  to  poignancy 
the  feeling  that  life  was  slipping  away  from  her 
while  she  was  still  comely.  She  had  been  so  long 
out  of  England,  and  so  hard-worked  since  she  came 
back;  there  were  not  many  threads  she  could  pick 
up  suddenly.  Two  letters  out  of  that  little  budget 
of  the  past,  with  a  far  cry  between  them,  had  awak- 
ened within  her  certain  sentimental  longings. 

"Dear  Lady  of  the  Starry  Flowers, 

"  Exiturus  (sic)  te  saluto !    The  tender  carries  you  this 
message   of   good-bye.     Simply   speaking,   I   hate   leaving 


86  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

South  Africa.  And  of  all  my  memories,  the  last  will  live  the 
longest.  Grape  harvest  at  Constantia,  and  you  singing:  'If 
I  could  be  the  falling  dew.'  If  ever  you  and  your  husband 
come  to  England,  do  let  me  know,  that  I  may  try  and  repay 
a  little  the  happiest  five  days  I've  spent  out  here. 

*'Your  very  faithful  servant, 

''Jimmy  Fort." 

She  remembered  a  very  brown  face,  a  tall  slim 
figure,  and  something  gallant  about  the  whole  of 
him.  What  was  he  like  after  ten  years?  Grizzled, 
married,  with  a  large  family?  An  odious  thing — 
Time!  And  Cousin  Edward's  little  yellow  letter. 
Good  heavens !  Twenty-six  years  ago  before  he 
was  a  parson,  or  married  or  anything !  Such  a  good 
partner,  really  musical;  a  queer,  dear  fellow,  de- 
voted, absent-minded,  so  easily  shocked,  yet  with 
flame  burning  in  him  somewhere. 

"Dear  Leila, 

"After  our  last  dance  I  went  straight  off — I  couldn't  go 
in.  I  went  down  to  the  river,  and  walked  along  the  bank; 
it  was  beautiful,  all  grey  and  hazy,  and  the  trees  whispered, 
and  the  cows  looked  holy;  and  I  walked  along  and  thought 
of  you.  And  a  farmer  took  me  for  a  limatic,  in  my  dress 
clothes.  Dear  Leila,  you  were  so  pretty  last  night,  and  I 
did  love  our  dances.  I  hope  you're  not  tired,  and  that  1 
shall  see  you  soon  again. 

"Your  affectionate  cousin, 

"Edward  Pierson." 

And  then  he  had  gone  and  become  a  parson,  and 
married,  and  been  a  widower  fifteen  years.  She 
remembered  the  death  of  his  wife,  just  before  she 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  87 

eft  for  South  Africa,  at  that  period  of  disgrace  when 
ihe  had  so  shocked  her  family  by  her  divorce. 
Poor  Edward — quite  the  nicest  of  her  cousins !  The 
)nly  one  she  would  care  to  see  again.  He  would  be 
/ery  old  and  terribly  good  and  proper,  by  now ! 

Her  wheel  of  Regent's  Park  was  coming  full 
:ircle,  and  the  sun  was  up  behind  the  houses,  but 
;till  no  sound  of  traffic  stirred.  She  stopped  be- 
ore  a  flower-bed  where  was  some  heliotrope,  and 
;ook  a  long,  luxurious  sniff.  She  could  not  resist 
3lucking  a  sprig,  too,  and  holding  it  to  her  nose. 
\  sudden  want  of  love  had  run  through  every  nerve 
md  fibre  of  her;  she  shivered,  standing  there  with 
ler  eyes  half  closed,  above  the  pale  violet  blossom, 
rhen,  noting  by  her  wrist-watch  that  it  was  four 
)'clock,  she  hurried  on,  to  get  to  her  bed,  for  she 
Nonld  have  to  be  on  duty  again  at  noon.  Oh !  the 
ivar !  She  was  tired  I  If  only  it  were  over,  and 
Dne  could  live !  .  .  . 

Somewhere  by  Twickennam  the  moon  had  floated 
lown;  somewhere  up  from  Kentish  Town  the  sun 
:ame  soaring;  wheels  rolled  again,  and  the  seven 
nilhon  sleepers  in  their  million  houses  woke  from 
Horning  sleep  to  that  same  thought.  .  .  , 


DC 

Edward    Pterson,    dreaming    over   an    egg    at 

breakfast,  opened  a  letter  in  a  handwriting  which 

he  did  not  recognise. 

"V.  A.  D.  Hospital, 
"Mulberry  Road,  St.  John's  Wood  N.  W. 
"Dear  Cousin  Edward, 

"Do  you  remember  me,  or  have  I  gone  too  far  mio  the 
shades  of  night?  I  was  Leila  Pierson  once  upon  a  time,  and 
I  often  think  of  you  and  wonder  what  you  are  like  now,  and 
what  your  girls  are  like.  I  have  been  here  nearly  a  year, 
working  for  our  wounded,  and  for  a  year  before  that  was 
nursing  in  South  Africa.  My  husband  died  five  years  ago 
out  there.  Though  we  haven't  met  for  I  dare  not  think  how 
long,  I  shovild  awfully  like  to  see  you  again.  Would  you  care 
to  come  some  day  and  look  over  my  hospital?  I  have  two 
wards  under  me;  our  men  are  rather  dears. 

"Your  forgotten  but  still  affectionate  cousin 

"Leila  Lynch." 

"P.  S.  I  came  across  a  Uttle  letter  you  once  wrote  me; 
it  brought  back  old  days." 

No !  He  had  not  forgotten.  There  was  a  re- 
minder in  the  house.  And  he  looked  up  at  Noel 
sitting  opposite.  How  like  the  eyes  were !  And  he 
thought:  'I  wonder  what  Leila  has  become.  One 
mustn't  be  uncharitable.  That  man  is  dead;  she 
has  been  nursing  two  years.  She  must  be  greatly 
changed;   I  should  certainly  Hke  to  see  her.     I  will 

88 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  89 

go!*  Again  he  looked  at  Noel.  Only  yesterday 
she  had  renewed  her  request  to  be  allowed  to  begin 
her  training  as  a  nurse. 

"I'm  going  to  see  a  hospital  to-day,  Nollie,"  he 
said;   "if  you  like,  I'll  make  enquiries.     I'm  afraid 
it'll  mean  you  have  to  begin  by  washing  up." 
I  know;  anything,  so  long  as  I  do  begin." 
'Very  well;    I'll  see  about  it."    And  he  went 
back  to  his  egg. 

Noel's  voice  roused  him.  "Do  you  feel  the  war 
much,  Daddy?  Does  it  hurt  you  here?"  She  had 
put  her  hand  on  her  heart.  "Perhaps  it  doesn't, 
because  you  Hve  half  in  the  next  world,  don't  you?" 

The  words:  'God  forbid,'  sprang  to  Pierson's 
lips;  he  did  not  speak  them,  but  put  his  egg-spoon 
down,  hurt  and  bewildered.  What  did  the  child 
mean  ?    Not  feel  the  war !    He  smiled. 

"I  hope  I'm  able  to  help  people  sometimes, 
NolHe,"  and  was  conscious  that  he  had  answered 
his  own  thoughts,  not  her  words.  He  finished  his 
breakfast  quickly,  and  very  soon  went  out.  He 
crossed  the  Square,  and  passed  East,  down  two 
crowded  streets  to  his  church.  In  the  traffic  of 
those  streets,  all  slipshod  and  confused,  his  black- 
clothed  figure  and  grave  face,  with  its  Vandyk 
beard,  had  a  curious  remote  appearance,  like  a  mov- 
ing remnant  of  a  past  civilisation.  He  went  in  by 
the  side  door.  Only  five  days  he  had  been  away, 
but  they  had  been  so  full  of  emotion  that  the 
empty  familiar  building  seemed  almost  strange  to 
him.     He  had  come  there  unconsciously,  groping 


90  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

for  anchorage  and  guidance  in  this  sudden  change 
of  relationship  between  him  and  his  daughters.  He 
stood  by  the  pale  brazen  eagle,  staring  into  the  chan- 
cel. The  choir  were  wanting  new  hymn-books — 
he  must  not  forget  to  order  them !  His  eyes  sought 
the  stained-glass  window  he  had  put  in  to  the 
memory  of  his  wife.  The  sun,  too  high  to  slant,  was 
burnishing  its  base,  till  it  glowed  of  a  deep  sherry 
colour.  '  In  the  next  world ! '  What  strange  words 
of  Noel's!  His  eyes  caught  the  glimmer  of  the 
organ-pipes;  and,  mounting  to  the  loft,  he  began  to 
play  soft  chords,  wandering  into  each  other.  He 
finished,  and  stood  gazing  down.  This  space  within 
high  waUs,  under  high  vaulted  roof,  where  Ught  was 
toned  to  a  perpetual  twilight,  broken  here  and  there 
by  a  httle  glow  of  colour  from  glass  and  flowers, 
metal,  and  dark  wood,  was  his  home,  his  charge,  his 
refuge.  Nothing  moved  down  there,  and  yet — ^was 
not  emptiness  mysteriously  living,  the  closed-in  air 
imprinted  in  strange  sort,  as  though  the  drone  of 
music  and  voices  in  prayer  and  praise  clung  there 
still?  Had  not  sanctity  a  presence?  Outside,  a 
barrel-organ  drove  its  tune  along;  a  wagon  stag- 
gered on  the  paved  street,  and  the  driver  shouted 
to  his  horses;  some  distant  guns  boomed  out  in 
practice,  and  the  roUing  of  wheels  on  wheels  formed 
a  net  of  sound.  But  those  invading  noises  were 
transmuted  to  a  mere  murmuring  in  here;  only  the 
silence  and  the  twilight  were  real  to  Pierson,  stand- 
ing there,  a  Httle  black  figure  in  a  great  empty 
space. 


u 
It 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  91 

When  he  left  the  church,  it  was  still  rather  early 
to  go  to  Leila's  hospital;  and,  having  ordered  the 
new  h}^Tnn-books,  he  called  in  at  the  house  of  a 
parishioner  whose  son  had  been  killed  in  France. 
He  found  her  in  her  kitchen;  an  oldish  woman  who 
lived  by  charing.  She  wiped  a  seat  for  the  Vicar. 
T  was  just  makin'  meself  a  cup  o'  tea,  sir." 
'Ah !  What  a  comfort  tea  is,  Mrs.  Soles ! "  And 
he  sat  down,  so  that  she  should  feel  'at  home.' 

"Yes;  it  gives  me  'eart-bum;  I  take  eight  or  ten 
cups  a  day,  now.  I  take  'em  strong,  too.  I  don't 
seem  able  to  get  on  without  it.  I  'ope  the  young 
ladies  are  well,  sir?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you.  Miss  Noel  is  going  to 
begin  nursing,  too." 

"Deary — me!  She's  very  young;  but  all  the 
young  gells  are  doin'  something  these  days.  I've 
got  a  niece  in  munitions — makin'  a  pretty  penny  she 
is.  I've  been  meanin'  to  tell  you — I  don't  come  to 
church  now;  since  my  son  was  killed,  I  don't  seem 
to  'ave  the  'eart  to  go  anywhere — 'aven't  been  to  a 
picture-palace  these  three  months.  Any  excite- 
ment starts  me  cryin'." 

"I  know;  but  you'd  find  rest  in  church." 

Mrs.  Soles  shook  her  head,  and  the  small  twisted 
bob  of  her  discoloured  hair  wobbled  vaguely. 

"I  can't  take  any  recreation,"  she  said.  "I'd 
rather  sit  'ere,  or  be  at  work.  My  son  was  a  real 
son  to  me.  This  tea's  the  only  thing  that  does  me 
any  good.     I  can  make  you  a  fresh  cup  in  a  minute." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Soles,  but  I  must  be  getting 


92  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

on.  We  must  all  look  forward  to  meeting  our  be- 
loved again,  in  God's  mercy.  And  one  of  these  days 
soon  I  shall  be  seeing  you  in  church,  shan't  I?" 

Mrs.  Soles  shifted  her  weight  from  one  slippered 
foot  to  the  other. 

"Well,  let's  'ope  so,"  she  said.  "But  I  dunno 
when  I  shall  'ave  the  spirit.  Good  day,  sir,  and 
thank  you  kindly  for  calling,  I'm  sure." 

Pierson  walked  away  with  a  very  faint  smile. 
Poor  queer  old  soul ! — she  was  no  older  than  himself, 
but  he  thought  of  her  as  ancient — cut  off  from  her 
son,  like  so  many — so  many;  and  how  good  and 
patient !  The  melody  of  an  anthem  began  running 
in  his  head.  His  fingers  moved  on  the  air  beside 
him,  and  he  stood  still,  waiting  for  an  omnibus  to 
take  him  to  St.  John's  Wood.  A  thousand  people 
went  by  while  he  was  waiting,  but  he  did  not  no- 
tice them,  thinking  of  that  anthem,  of  his  daughters, 
and  the  mercy  of  God;  and  on  the  top  of  his  'bus, 
when  it  came  along,  he  looked  lonely  and  apart, 
though  the  man  beside  him  was  so  fat  that  there 
was  hardly  any  seat  left  to  sit  on.  Getting  down 
at  Lord's  Cricket  Ground,  he  asked  his  way  of  a 
lady  in  a  nurse's  dress. 

"If  you'll  come  with  me,"  she  said,  "I'm  just 
going  there." 

"Oh!  Do  you  happen  to  know  a  Mrs.  Lynch 
who  nurses " 

"I  am  Mrs.  Lynch.  Why,  you're  Edward  Pier- 
son!" 

He  looked  into  her  face,  which  he  had  not  yet 
observed. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  93 

"Leila!"  he  said. 

"Yes,  Leila!  How  awfully  nice  of  you  to  come, 
Edward!" 

They  continued  to  stand,  searching  each  for  the 
other's  youth,  till  she  murmured: 

"In  spite  of  your  beard,  I  should  have  known 
you  anywhere !"  But  she  thought:  'Poor  Edward ! 
He  is  old,  and  monk-like ! ' 

And  Pierson,  in  answer,  murmured: 

"You're  very  little  changed,  Leila!  We  haven't 
seen  each  other  since  my  youngest  girl  was  born. 
She's  just  a  Httle  like  you."  But  he  thought:  'My 
NoUie !    So  much  more  dewy;  poor  Leila !' 

They  walked  on,  talking  of  his  daughters,  till  they 
reached  the  hospital. 

"If  you'll  wait  here  just  a  minute,  I'll  take  you 
over  my  wards." 

She  had  left  him  in  a  bare  hall,  holding  his  hat  in 
one  hand  and  touching  his  gold  cross  with  the 
other;  but  she  soon  came  back,  and  a  little  warmth 
crept  about  his  heart.  How  works  of  mercy  suited 
women !  She  looked  so  different,  so  much  softer, 
with  those  big  grey  eyes  beneath  the  white  coif,  and 
that  white  apron  over  the  bluish  frock. 

At  the  change  in  his  face,  a  httle  warmth  crept 
about  Leila,  too,  just  where  the  bib  of  her  apron 
stopped;  and  her  eyes  shd  round  at  him  while  they 
went  towards  what  had  once  been  a  billiard-room. 

"My  men  are  dears,"  she  said;  "they  love  to  be 
talked  to." 

Under  a  skylight  six  beds  jutted  out  from  a  green 
distempered  wall,  opposite  to  six  beds  jutting  out 


94  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

from  another  green  distempered  wall  and  from 
each  bed  a  face  was  turned  towards  them — ^young 
faces,  with  but  little  expression  in  them.  A  nurse, 
at  the  far  end,  looked  round,  and  went  on  with  her 
work.  The  sight  of  the  ward  was  no  more  new  to 
Pierson  than  to  anyone  else  in  these  days.  It  was 
so  familiar,  indeed,  that  it  had  practically  no  signifi- 
cance. He  stood  by  the  first  bed,  and  Leila  stood 
alongside.  The  man  smiled  up  when  she  spoke, 
and  did  not  smile  when  he  spoke,  and  that  again 
was  famihar  to  him.  They  passed  from  bed  to  bed, 
with  exactly  the  same  result,  till  she  was  called 
away,  and  he  sat  down  by  a  young  soldier  with  a 
long,  very  narrow  head  and  face,  and  a  heavily 
bandaged  shoulder.  Touching  the  bandage  rever- 
ently, Pierson  said: 

''Well,  my  dear  feUow— stiU  bad?" 

"Ah!"  replied  the  soldier.  "Shrapnel  wound. 
It's  cut  the  flesh  properly." 

"But  not  the  spirit,  I  can  see!" 

The  young  soldier  gave  him  a  quaint  look,  as 
much  as  to  say:  'Not  'arf  bad !'  and  a  gramophone 
close  to  the  last  bed  began  to  play:  'God  bless 
Daddy  at  the  war ! ' 

"Are  you  fond  of  music?" 

"I  like  it  well  enough.    Passes  the  time." 

"I'm  afraid  the  time  hangs  heavy  in  hospital." 

"Yes;  it  'angs  a  bit  'eavy;  it's  just  'orspital  fife. 
I've  been  wounded  before,  you  see.  It's  better  than 
bein'  out  there.  I  expect  I'll  lose  the  proper  use 
o'  this  arm.     I  don't  worry;  I'U  get  my  discharge." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  95 

"You've  got  some  good  nurses  here." 

"Yes;  I  like  Mrs.  Lynch;  she's  the  lady  I  like." 

"My  cousin." 

"I  see  you  come  in  together.  I  see  everything 
'ere.     I  think  a  lot,  too.    Passes  the  time." 

"Do  they  let  you  smoke?" 

"Oh,  yes !    They  let  us  smoke." 

"Have  one  of  mine?" 

The  young  soldier  smiled  for  the  first  time. 
"Thank  you;  I've  got  plenty." 

The  nurse  came  by,  and  smiled  at  Pierson. 

"He's  one  of  our  blase  ones;  been  in  before, 
haven't  you,  Simson?" 

Pierson  looked  at  the  young  man,  whose  long, 
narrow  face,  where  one  sandy-lashed  eyelid  drooped 
just  a  little,  seemed  armoured  with  a  sort  of  limited 
omniscience.  The  gramophone  had  whirred  and 
grunted  into  'Sidi  Brahim.'    The  nurse  passed  on. 

"Seedy  Abram,"  said  the  young  soldier.  "The 
Frenchies  sing  it;  they  takes  it  up  one  after  the 
other,  ye  know." 

"Ah!"  murmured  Pierson;  "it's  pretty."  And 
his  fingers  drummed  on  the  counterpane,  for  the 
tune  was  new  to  him.  Something  seemed  to  move 
in  the  young  man's  face,  as  if  a  bhnd  had  been 
drawn  up  a  Httle. 

"I  don't  mind  France,"  he  said  abruptly;  "I 
don't  mind  the  shells  and  that;  but  I  can't  stick 
the  mud.  There's  a  lot  o'  wounded  die  in  the 
mud;  can't  get  up — smothered."  His  unwounded 
arm  made  a  restless  movement.     "I  was  nearly 


96  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

smothered  myseK.    Just  managed  to  keep  me  nose 


up." 


Pierson  shuddered.     "Thank  God  you  did!" 

"Yes;  I  didn't  Hke  that.  I  told  Mrs.  Lynch 
about  that  one  day  when  I  had  the  fever.  She's  a 
nice  lady;  she's  seen  a  lot  of  us  boys.  That  mud's 
not  right,  you  know."  And  again  his  unwounded 
arm  made  that  restless  movement,  while  the  gram- 
ophone struck  up:  'The  boys  in  brown.'  The 
movement  of  the  arm  affected  Pierson  horribly;  he 
rose  and,  touching  the  bandaged  shoulder,  said: 

"Good-bye;  I  hope  you'll  soon  be  quite  recov- 
ered." 

The  young  soldier's  lips  twisted  in  the  semblance 
of  a  smile;  his  drooped  eyelid  seemed  to  try  and 
raise  itself. 

"Good  day,  sir,"  he  said;  "and  thank  you." 

Pierson  went  back  to  the  hall.  The  sunlight  fell 
in  a  pool  just  inside  the  open  door,  and  an  uncon- 
trollable impulse  made  him  move  into  it,  so  that 
it  warmed  him  up  to  the  waist.  The  mud !  How 
ugly  hfe  was!  Life  and  Death!  Both  ugly! 
Poor  boys !    Poor  boys ! 

A  voice  behind  him  said: 

"  Oh !  There  you  are,  Edward !  Would  you  like 
to  see  the  other  ward,  or  shall  I  show  you  our 
kitchen?" 

Pierson  took  her  hand  impulsively.  "You're 
doing  a  noble  work,  Leila.  I  wanted  to  ask  you: 
Could  you  arrange  for  Noel  to  come  and  get  trained 
here?    She  wants  to  begin  at  once.     The  fact  is, 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  97 

a  boy  she  is  attracted  to  has  just  gone  out  to  the 
Front." 

"Ah !"  murmured  Leila,  and  her  eyes  looked  very 
soft.  "Poor  child!  We  shall  be  wanting  an  extra 
hand  next  week.  I'll  see  if  she  could  come  now. 
I'll  speak  to  our  Matron,  and  let  you  know  to-night." 
She  squeezed  his  hand  hard. 

"Dear  Edward,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again. 
You're  the  first  of  our  family  I've  seen  for  sixteen 
years.  I  wonder  if  you'd  bring  Noel  to  have  sup- 
per at  my  flat  to-night — ^just  nothing  to  eat,  you 
know !  It's  a  tiny  place.  There's  a  Captain  Fort 
coming;  a  nice  man." 

Pierson  accepted,  and  as  he  walked  away  he 
thought:  'Dear  Leila !  I  beHeve  it  was  Providence. 
She  wants  sympathy.  She  wants  to  feel  the  past 
is  the  past.     How  good  women  are ! ' 

And  the  sun,  blazing  suddenly  out  of  a  cloud, 
shone  on  his  black  figure  and  the  little  gold  cross, 
in  the  middle  of  Portland  Place. 


X 

Men,  even  if  they  are  not  artistic,  who  have  been 
in  strange  places  and  known  many  nooks  of  the 
world,  get  the  scenic  habit,  become  open  to  pictorial 
sensation.  It  was  as  a  picture  or  series  of  pictures 
that  Jimmy  Fort  ever  afterwards  remembered  his 
first  supper  at  Leila's.  He  happened  to  have  been 
all  day  in  the  open,  motoring  about  to  horse  farms 
under  a  hot  sun;  and  Leila's  hock  cup  possessed  a 
bland  and  subtle  strength.  The  scenic  sense  derived 
therefrom  had  a  certain  poignancy,  the  more  so 
because  the  taU  child  whom  he  met  there  did  not 
drink  it,  and  her  father  seemed  but  to  wet  his  Hps, 
so  that  Leila  and  he  had  all  the  rest.  Rather  a 
wonderful  little  scene  it  made  in  his  mind,  very 
warm,  glowing,  yet  with  a  strange  dark  sharpness 
to  it,  which  came  perhaps  from  the  black  walls. 

The  flat  had  belonged  to  an  artist  who  was  at 
the  war.  It  was  but  a  pocket  dwelling  on  the  third 
floor.  The  two  windows  of  the  little  square  sitting- 
room  looked  out  on  some  trees  and  a  church.  But 
Leila,  who  hated  dining  by  dayHght,  had  soon  drawn 
curtains  of  a  deep  blue  over  them.  The  picture 
which  Fort  remembered  was  this:  A  little  four- 
square table  of  dark  wood,  with  a  Chinese  mat  of 
vivid  blue  in  the  centre,  whereon  stood  a  silver 
lustre   bowl    of   clove   carnations;     some   greenish 

98 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  99 

glasses  with  hock  cup  in  them;  on  his  left,  Leila 
in  a  low  lilac  frock,  her  neck  and  shoulders  very 
white,  her  face  a  httle  powdered,  her  eyes  large,  her 
lips  smiling;  opposite  him  a  black-clothed  padre 
with  a  Httle  gold  cross,  over  whose  thin  darkish  face, 
with  its  grave  pointed  beard,  passed  little  gentle 
smiles,  but  whose  deep-sunk  grey  eyes  were  burnt 
and  bright;  on  his  right,  a  girl  m  a  high  grey  frock, 
almost  white,  just  hollowed  at  the  neck,  with  full 
sleeves  to  the  elbow,  so  that  her  slim  arms  escaped; 
her  short  fair  hair  a  Httle  tumbled;  her  big  grey 
eyes  grave;  her  full  Hps  shaping  with  a  strange 
daintiness  round  every  word — and  they  not  many; 
briUiant  red  shades  over  golden  Hghts  dotting  the 
black  walls;  a  blue  divan;  a  Httle  black  piano  flush 
with  the  waU;  a  dark  polished  floor;  four  Japanese 
prints;  a  white  ceiHng.  He  was  conscious  that  his 
own  khaki  spoiled  something  as  curious  and  rare  as 
some  old  Chinese  tea-chest.  He  even  remembered 
what  they  ate:  lobster;  cold  pigeon  pie;  asparagus; 
St.  Ivel  cheese;  raspberries  and  cream.  He  did  not 
remember  half  so  weU  what  they  talked  of,  except 
that  he  himself  told  them  stories  of  the  Boer  War, 
in  which  he  had  served  in  the  Yeomanry,  and  while 
he  was  telling  them,  the  girl,  Hke  a  child  Hstening  to 
a  fairy-tale,  never  moved  her  eyes  from  his  face. 
He  remembered  that  after  supper  they  all  smoked 
cigarettes,  even  the  taU  child,  after  the  padre  had 
said  to  her  mildly,  "My  dear!"  and  she  had  an- 
swered: "I  simply  must,  Daddy,  just  one."  He  re- 
membered Leila  brewing  Turkish  coffee — very  good, 


loo  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

and  how  beautiful  her  white  anns  looked,  hovering 
about  the  cups.     He  remembered  her  making  the 
padre  sit  down  at  the  piano,  and  play  to  them. 
And  she  and  the  girl  on  the  divan  together,  side  by- 
side,  a  strange  contrast;    with  just   as   strange  a 
Ukeness    to    each    other.     He  always   remembered 
how  fine  and  rare  that  music  sounded  in  the  little 
room,  flooding  him  with  a  dreamy  beatitude.     Then 
— he  remembered — Leila  sang,  the  padre  standing 
by;  and  the  tall  child  on  the  divan  bending  forward 
over  her  knees,  with  her  chin  on  her  hands.     He  re- 
membered rather  vividly  how  Leila  turned  her  neck 
and  looked  up,  now  at  the  padre,  now  at  himself; 
and,  all  through,  the  delightful  sense  of  colour  and 
warmth,  a  sort  of  glamour  over  all  the  evening; 
and  the  hngering  pressure  of  Leila's  hand  when  he 
said  good-bye  and  they  went  away,  for  they  all  went 
together.     He  remembered  talking  a  great  deal  to 
the  padre  in  the  cab,  about  the  pubHc  school  they 
had  both  been  at,  and  thinking:   'It's  a  good  padre 
— this !'    He  remembered  how  their  taxi  took  them 
to  an  old  Square  which  he  did  not  know,  where  the 
garden  trees  looked  densely  black  in  the  starshine. 
He  remembered  that  a  man  outside  the  house  had 
engaged  the  padre  in  earnest  talk,  while  the  tail 
child  and  himself  stood  in  the  open  doorway,  where 
the  hall  beyond  was  dark.    Very  exactly  he  remem- 
bered the  Uttle  conversation  which  then  took  place 
between  them,  while  they  waited  for  her  father. 
"Is  it  very  horrid  in  the  trenches.  Captain  Fort?'* 
"Yes,  Miss  Pierson;  it  is  very  horrid,  as  a  rule.'* 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  loi 

"Is  it  dangerous  all  the  time?" 

*Tretty  well." 

"Do  officers  run  more  risks  than  the  men?" 

"Not  unless  there's  an  attack." 

"Are  there  attacks  very  often?" 

It  had  seemed  to  him  so  strangely  primitive  a 
httle  catechism,  that  he  had  smiled.  And,  though 
it  was  so  dark,  she  had  seen  that  smile,  for  her  face 
went  proud  and  close  all  of  a  sudden.  He  had 
cursed  himself,  and  said  gently: 

"Have  you  a  brother  out  there?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"But  someone?" 

"Yes." 

Someone!  He  had  heard  that  answer  with  a 
Httle  shock.  This  child — this  fairy  princess  of  a 
child  already  to  have  someone!  He  wondered  if 
she  went  about  asking  everyone  these  questions, 
with  that  someone  in  her  thoughts.  Poor  child! 
And  quickly  he  said: 

"After  all,  look  at  me!  I  was  out  there  a  year, 
and  here  I  am  with  only  half  a  game  leg;  times  were 
a  lot  worse,  then,  too.  I  often  wish  I  were  back 
there.  Anything's  better  than  London  and  the 
War  Office."  But  just  then  he  saw  the  padre 
coming,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Good  night,  Miss  Pierson.  Don't  worry.  That 
does  no  good,  and  there  isn't  half  the  risk  you 
think." 

Her  hand  stirred,  squeezed  his  gratefully,  as  a 
child's  would  squeeze. 


102  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


tc. 


Good  night,"  she  murmured;  "thank  you  aw- 
fully." 

And,  in  the  dark  cab  again,  he  remembered  think- 
ing :  '  Fancy  that  child !  A  jolly  lucky  boy,  out 
there !    Too  bad !    Poor  little  fairy  princess ! ' 


PART  II 


I§ 

To  wash  up  IS  not  an  exciting  operation.  To 
wash  up  in  August  became  for  Noel  a  process  which 
taxed  her  strength  and  enthusiasm.  She  combined 
it  with  other  forms  of  instruction  in  the  art  of  nurs- 
ing, had  very  httle  leisure,  and  in  the  evenings 
would  often  fall  asleep  in  the  drawing-room  curled 
up  in  a  large  chintz-covered  chair. 

George  and  Gratian  had  long  gone  back  to  their 
respective  hospitals,  and  she  and  her  father  had  the 
house  to  themselves.  She  received  many  letters 
from  Cyril  which  she  carried  about  with  her  and 
read  on  her  way  to  and  from  the  hospital;  and  every 
other  day  she  wrote  to  him.  He  was  not  yet  in  the 
firing  hne;  his  letters  were  descriptive  of  his  men, 
his  food,  or  the  natives,  or  reminiscent  of  Kestrel; 
hers  descriptive  of  washing  up,  or  reminiscent  of 
Kestrel.  But  in  both  there  was  always  some  httle 
word  of  the  longing  within  them. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  August  that  she  had 
the  letter  which  said  that  he  had  been  moved  up. 
From  now  on  he  would  be  in  hourly  danger !  That 
evening  after  dinner  she  did  not  go  to  sleep  in  the 
chair,  but  sat  under  the  open  window,  clenching 
her  hands,  and  reading  'Pride  and  Prejudice'  with- 

los 


io6  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

out  understanding  a  word.  While  she  was  so  en- 
gaged her  father  came  up  and  said: 

''Captain  Fort,  Nollie.  Will  you  give  him  some 
coffee?    I'm  afraid  I  must  go  out." 

When  he  had  gone,  Noel  looked  at  her  visitor 
drinking  his  coffee,  and  thought:  'He  was  out  there, 
too,  and  he's  ahve;  he's  only  got  a  Httle  limp.' 
The  visitor  smiled  and  said: 

"What  were  you  thinking  about  when  we  came 
in?" 

"Only  the  war." 

"Any  news  of  him?" 

Noel  frowned,  she  hated  to  show  her  feelings. 

"Yes!  he's  gone  to  the  Front.  Won't  you  have 
a  cigarette?" 

"Thanks.     WiH  you?" 

"I  want  one  awfully." 

Fort  made  a  funny  little  sound. 

"I  think  sitting  still  and  waiting  is  more  dreadful 
than  anything  else  in  the  world,"  said  Noel  sud- 
denly. 

"Except  knowing  that  others  are  waiting.  When 
I  was  out  there  I  used  to  worry  horribly  over  my 
mother.  She  was  ill  at  the  time.  The  crudest  thing 
in  this  war  is  the  anxiety  of  people  about  each  other 
— ^nothing  touches  that." 

The  words  exactly  summed  up  Noel's  hourly 
thought.  He  said  nice  things,  this  man  with  the 
long  legs  and  the  thin  brown  bumpy  face ! 

"I  wish  I  were  a  man,"  she  said,  "I  think  women 
have  much  the  worst  time  in  the  war.     Is  your 


SAINT'S.. PROGRESS  107 

mother  old  ?  "    But  of  course  she  was  old — ^why  he 
was  old  himself! 

"She  died  last  Christmas." 

He  said  it  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  but  his  face 
went  all  wrinkled;  and  Noel  murmured: 

"Oh!    I'm  so  sorry!" 

"One  doesn't  know  how  fond  one  is  till  one  loses. 
You  lost  your  mother  when  you  were  a  babe,  didn't 
you?" 

"Yes.  That's  her  portrait."  At  the  end  of  the 
room,  hanging  on  a  strip  of  black  velvet  was  a  pas- 
tel, very  faint  in  colouring,  as  though  faded,  of  a 
young  woman,  with  an  eager,  sweet  face,  and  dark 
eyes,  who  was  leaning  a  httle  forward,  as  if  ques- 
tioning her  painter.     Fort  went  up  to  it. 

"It's  not  a  bit  like  you.  But  she  must  have  been 
a  very  sweet  woman." 

"I  think  it's  a  sort  of  presence  in  the  room.  I 
wish  I  were  like  her ! " 

Fort  turned.  "No,"  he  said;  "no.  Better  as 
you  are.  It  would  only  have  spoiled  a  complete 
thing." 

Noel  shook  her  head.    "  She  was  good." 
And  aren't  you?" 
Oh !  no.     I  get  a  devil." 

He  looked  down  at  her  quizzically.  "You! 
Why,  you're  out  of  a  fairy-tale !" 

"It  comes  from  Daddy — only  he  doesn't  know 
that;  and  nobody  else  does,  either,  because  he's  a 
perfect  saint;  but  I  know  he's  had  a  devil  some- 
where, or  he  couldn't  be  the  saint  he  is." 


io8  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"H'm!"  said  Fort.  "That's  very  deep:  and  I 
believe  it's  true — the  saints  did  have  devils." 

"Poor  Daddy's  devil  has  been  dead  ages.  It's 
been  starved  out  of  him,  I  think." 

"Does  your  devil  ever  get  away  with  you?'* 

Noel  felt  her  cheeks  growing  red  under  his  stare, 
and  she  turned  to  the  window: 

"Yes.     It's  a  real  devU." 

Vividly  there  had  come  before  her  the  dark  Ab- 
bey, and  the  moon  balancing  over  the  top  of  the 
crumbling  wall,  and  the  white  owl  flying  across. 
And,  speaking  to  the  air,  she  said: 

"It  makes  you  do  things  that  you  want  to  do." 

She  wondered  if  he  would  laugh — ^it  sounded  so 
silly.     But  he  did  not. 

"And  damn  the  consequences?  I  know.  It's 
rather  a  joUy  thing  to  have." 

Noel  shook  her  head.  "Oh!  no,  I  think  it's  like 
drinking,  and  then  being  sorry.  Here's  Daddy 
coming  back!" 

Fort  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  won't  stay.  Good  night;  and  don't  worry 
too  much,  will  you?" 

He  kept  her  hand  rather  a  long  time,  and  gave 
it  a  hard  squeeze. 

Don't  worry!  What  advice!  Ah!  if  she  could 
see  Cyril  just  for  a  minute ! 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  109 

In  September,  191 6,  Saturday  still  came  before 
Sunday,  in  spite  of  the  war.  For  Edward  Pierson 
this  Saturday  had  been  a  strenuous  day,  and  even 
now,  at  nearly  midnight,  he  was  stiU  conning  his 
just-completed  sermon. 

A  patriot  of  patriots,  he  had  often  a  passionate 
longing  to  resign  his  parish,  and  go  like  his  curate 
for  a  chaplain  at  the  Front.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
people  must  think  his  Ufe  idle  and  sheltered  and 
useless.  Even  in  times  of  peace  he  had  been  sensi- 
tive enough  to  feel  the  cold  draughty  blasts  which 
the  Church  encounters  in  a  material  age.  He  knew 
that  nine  people  out  of  ten  looked  on  him  as  some- 
thing of  a  parasite,  with  no  real  work  in  the  world. 
And  since  he  was  nothing  if  not  conscientious,  he 
alv/ays  worked  himself  to  the  bone. 

To-day  he  had  risen  at  half-past  six,  and  after 
his  bath  and  exercises,  had  sat  down  to  his  sermon 
— for,  even  now,  he  wrote  a  new  sermon  once  a 
month,  though  he  had  the  fruits  of  twenty-six  years 
to  choose  from.  True,  these  new  sermons  were 
rather  compiled  than  written,  because,  bereft  of  his 
curate,  he  had  not  time  enough  for  fresh  thought  on 
old  subjects.  At  eight  he  had  breakfasted  with 
Noel,  before  she  went  off  to  her  hospital,  when  she 
would  return  at  eight  in  the  evening.  Nine  to  ten 
was  his  hour  for  seeing  parishioners  who  had  troubles, 
or  wanted  help  or  advice,  and  he  had  received  three 
to-day  who  all  wanted  help,  which  he  had  given. 


no  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

From  ten  to  eleven  he  had  gone  back  to  his  ser- 
mon, and  had  spent  from  eleven  to  one  at  his  church, 
attending  to  small  matters,  writing  notices,  fixing 
hymns,  holding  the  daily  half-hour  Service  insti- 
tuted during  war-time,  to  which  but  few  ever  came. 
He  had  hurried  back  to  limch,  scamping  it  so  that 
he  might  get  to  his  piano  for  an  hour  of  forget- 
fulness.  At  three  he  had  christened  a  very  noisy 
baby,  and  been  detained  by  its  parents  who  wished 
for  information  on  a  variety  of  topics.  At  half- 
past  four  he  had  snatched  a  cup  of  tea,  reading  the 
paper;  and  had  spent  from  five  to  seven  visiting 
two  Parish  Clubs,  and  those  whose  war-pension 
matters  he  had  in  hand,  and  filling  up  forms  which 
would  be  kept  in  official  places  till  such  time  as  the 
system  should  be  changed  and  a  fresh  set  of  forms 
issued.  From  seven  to  eight  he  was  at  home  again, 
in  case  his  flock  wanted  to  see  him;  to-day  four 
sheep  had  come,  and  gone  away,  he  was  afraid,  but 
little  the  wiser.  From  half-past  eight  to  hah-past 
nine  he  had  spent  in  choir  practice,  because  the 
organist  was  on  his  hohday.  Slowly  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening  he  had  walked  home,  and  fallen  asleep 
in  his  chair  on  getting  in.  At  eleven  he  had  woken 
with  a  start,  and,  hardening  his  heart,  had  gone 
back  to  his  sermon.  And  now,  at  nearly  midnight,' 
it  was  still  less  than  twenty  minutes  long.  He  lighted 
one  of  his  rare  cigarettes,  and  let  thought  wander. 
How  beautiful  those  pale  pink  roses  were  in  that 
old  silver  bowl — like  a  little  strange  poem,  or  a 
piece  of  Debussy  music,  or  a  Mathieu  Maris  picture 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  ill 

— reminding  him  oddly  of  the  word  Leila.  Was  he 
wrong  in  letting  Noel  see  so  much  of  Leila?  But 
then  she  was  so  improved — dear  Leila!  .  .  .  The 
pink  roses  were  just  going  to  fall !  And  yet  how 
beautiful!  ...  It  was  quiet  to-night;  he  felt  very 
drowsy.  .  .  .  Did  NoUie  still  tb'nk  of  that  young 
man,  or  had  it  passed  ?  She  had  never  confided  in 
him  since !  After  the  war,  it  would  be  nice  to  take 
her  to  Italy,  to  all  the  Httle  towns.  They  would 
see  the  Assisi  of  St.  Francis.  The  Little  Flowers  of 
St.  Francis.  The  Little  Flowers!  ...  His  hand 
dropped,  the  cigarette  went  out.  He  slept  with  his 
face  in  shadow.  Slowly  into  the  silence  of  his  sleep 
little  sinister  sounds  intruded.  Short  concussions, 
dragging  him  back  out  of  that  deep  slumber.  He 
started  up.  Noel  was  standing  at  the  door,  in  a 
long  coat.     She  said  in  her  calm  voice: 

"Zeps,  Daddy!" 

"Yes,  my  dear.    Where  are  the  maids?" 

An  Irish  voice  answered  from  the  hall:  "Here, 
sir;  trustin'  in  God;  but  'tis  better  on  the  ground 
floor." 

He  saw  a  huddle  of  three  figures,  queerly  cos- 
tumed, against  the  stairs. 

"Yes,  yes,  Bridgie;  you're  safe  down  here.'* 
Then  he  noticed  that  Noel  was  gone.  He  followed 
her  out  into  the  Square,  alive  with  faces  faintly 
luminous  in  the  darkness,  and  found  her  against  the 
garden  raihngs. 

"You  must  come  back  in,  NoUie." 

"Oh,  no!    Cyril  has  this  ever>'  day.'* 


112  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

He  stood  beside  her;  not  loth,  for  excitement  had 
begun  to  stir  his  blood.  They  stayed  there  for  some 
minutes,  straining  their  eyes  for  sight  of  anything 
save  the  little  zagged  splashes  of  bursting  shrapnel, 
while  voices  buzzed,  and  muttered :  ''Look !  There ! 
There!    There  it  is!" 

But  the  seers  had  eyes  of  greater  faith  than  Pier- 
son's,  for  he  saw  nothing.  He  took  her  arm  at  last, 
and  led  her  in.     In  the  hall  she  broke  from  him. 

"Let's  go  up  on  the  roof,  Daddy!"  and  ran  up- 
stairs. 

Again  he  followed,  mounting  by  a  ladder,  through 
a  trap-door  on  to  the  roof. 

"It's  splendid  up  here!"  she  cried. 

He  could  see  her  eyes  blazing,  and  thought:  'How 
my  child  does  love  excitement — ^it's  almost  terri- 
ble!' 

Over  the  wide,  dark,  star-strewn  sky  travelling 
search-lights  were  Hghting  up  the  few  Httle  clouds; 
the  domes  and  spires  rose  from  among  the  spread- 
out  roofs,  all  fine  and  ghostly.  The  guns  had  ceased 
firing,  as  though  puzzled.  One  distant  bang  rum- 
bled out. 

"A  bomb!  Oh!  If  we  could  only  get  one  of 
the  Zeps!" 

A  furious  outburst  of  firing  followed,  lasting  per- 
haps a  minute,  then  ceased  as  if  by  magic.  They 
saw  two  search-lights  converge  and  meet  right  over- 
head. 

"It's  above  us!"  murmured  Noel. 

Pierson  put  his  arm  round  her  waist.     *  She  feels 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  113 

no  fear!'  he  thought.  The  search-lights  switched 
apart;  and  suddenly,  from  far  away,  came  a  con- 
fusion of  weird  sounds. 

''What  is  it?    They're  cheering.     Oh!    Daddy, 
look!"     There  in  the  heavens,  towards  the  east, 
hung  a  dull  red  thing,  lengthening  as  they  gazed. 
''  They've  got  it.    It's  on  fire !    Hurrah ! " 
Through  the  dark  firmament  that  fiery  orange 
shape  began  canting  downward;   and  the  cheering 
swelled  in  a  savage  frenzy  of  sound.    And  Pierson's 
arm  tightened  on  her  waist. 
"Thank  God !"  he  muttered. 
The  bright  oblong  seemed  to  break  and  spread, 
tilted  down  below  the  level  of  the  roofs;   and  sud- 
denly the  heavens  flared,  as  if  some  huge  jug  of 
crimson  light  had  been  flung  out  on  them.     Some- 
thing turned  over  in  Pierson's  heart;    he  flung  up 
his  hand  to  his  eyes. 

"  The  poor  men  in  it !"  he  said.  ''  How  terrible ! " 
Noel's  voice  answered,  hard  and  pitfless: 
"They  needn't  have  come.  They're  murderers  !'* 
Yes,  they  were  murderers — ^but  how  terrible ! 
And  he  stood  quivering,  with  his  hands  pressed  to 
his  face,  till  the  cheering  had  died  out  into  silence. 

"Let's  pray,  NolHe!"  he  whispered.  "O  God, 
Who  in  Thy  great  mercy  has  deHvered  us  from  peril, 
take  into  Thy  keeping  the  souls  of  these  our  enemies, 
consumed  by  Thy  wrath  before  our  eyes;  give  us 
the  power  to  pity  them — ^men  like  ourselves." 

But  even  while  he  prayed  he  could  see  Noel's  face 
flame-white  in  the  darkness;    and,  as  that  glow  in 


114  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

the  sky  faded  out,  he  felt  once  more  the  thrill  of 
triumph. 

They  went  down  to  tell  the  maids,  and  for  some 
time  after  sat  up  together,  talking  over  what  they 
had  seen,  eating  biscuits  and  drinking  milk,  which 
they  warmed  on  an  etna.  It  was  nearly  two  o'clock 
before  they  went  to  bed.  Pierson  fell  asleep  at 
once,  and  never  turned  till  awakened  at  half-past 
six  by  his  alarum.  He  had  Holy  Communion  to 
administer  at  eight,  and  he  hurried  to  get  early  to 
his  church  and  see  that  nothing  untoward  had  hap- 
pened to  it.  There  it  stood  in  the  sunlight;  tall, 
grey,  quiet,  imharmed,  with  bell  ringing  gently. 

3§ 

And  at  that  hour  Cyril  Morland,  under  the  para- 
pet of  his  trench,  tightening  his  belt,  was  looking 
at  his  wrist-watch  for  the  hundredth  time,  cal- 
culating exactly  where  he  meant  to  put  foot  and 
hand  for  the  going  over:  'I  absolutely  mustn't  let 
those  chaps  get  in  front  of  me,'  he  thought.  So 
many  yards  before  the  first  hne  of  trenches,  so  many 
yards  to  the  second  line,  and  there  stop.  So  his 
rehearsals  had  gone;  it  was  the  performance  now! 
Another  minute  before  the  terrific  racket  of  the 
drum-fire  should  become  the  curtain-fire,  which 
would  advance  before  them.  He  ran  his  eye  down 
the  trench.  The  man  next  him  was  licking  his  two 
first  fingers,  as  if  he  might  be  going  to  bowl  at 
cricket.     Further  down,  a  man  was  feeling  his  put- 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  115 

tees-  A  voice  said:  'Wot  price  the  orchestra  nah !' 
He  saw  teeth  gleam  in  faces  burnt  almost  black. 
Then  he  looked  up;  the  sky  was  blue  beyond  the 
brownish  film  of  dust  raised  by  the  striking  shells. 
Noel!  Noel!  Noel!  .  .  .  He  dug  his  fingers  deep 
into  the  left  side  of  his  tunic  till  he  could  feel  the 
outHne  of  her  photograph  between  his  dispatch-case 
and  his  heart.  His  heart  fluttered  just  as  it  used 
when  he  was  stretched  out  with  hand  touching  the 
ground,  before  the  start  of  the  "hundred  yards"  at 
school.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  caught  the 
flash  of  a  man's  "briquet"  lighting  a  cigarette.  All 
right  for  those  chaps,  but  not  for  him;  he  wanted 
aU  his  breath — this  rifle,  and  kit  was  handicap 
enough!  Two  days  ago  he  had  been  reading  in 
some  paper  how  men  felt  just  before  an  attack. 
And  now  he  knew.  He  just  felt  nervous.  If  only 
the  moment  would  come,  and  get  itself  over !  For 
all  the  thought  he  gave  to  the  enemy  there  might 
have  been  none — nothing  but  shells  and  bullets, 
with  lives  of  their  own.  He  heard  the  whistle;  his 
foot  was  on  the  spot  he  had  marked  down;  his  hand 
where  he  had  seen  it;  he  called  out:  "Now,  boys !" 
His  head  was  over  the  top,  his  body  over;  he  was 
conscious  of  someone  falling,  and  two  men  neck  and 
neck  beside  him.  Not  to  try  and  run,  not  to  break 
out  of  a  walk;  to  go  steady,  and  yet  keep  ahead! 
D — n  these  holes !  A  bullet  tore  through  his  sleeve, 
grazing  his  arm — a  red-hot  sensation,  like  the  touch 
of  an  iron.  A  British  sheU  from  close  over  his  head 
burst  sixty  yards  ahead;    he  stumbled,   fell  flat, 


ii6  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

picked  himself  up.  Three  ahead  of  him  now !  He 
walked  faster,  and  drew  alongside.  Two  of  them 
fell.  "What  luck!"  he  thought;  and  gripping  his 
rifle  harder,  pitched  headlong  into  a  dechvity. 
Dead  bodies  lay  there!  The  first  German  trench 
line,  and  nothing  alive  in  it,  nothing  to  clean  up, 
nothing  of  it  left!  He  stopped,  getting  his  wind; 
watching  the  men  panting  and  stumbhng  in.  The 
roar  of  the  guns  was  louder  than  ever  again,  bar- 
raging  the  second  line.  So  far,  good!  And  here 
was  his  captain ! 

''Ready,  boys?    On,  then!" 

This  time  he  moved  more  slowly  still,  over  ter- 
rible going,  all  holes  and  hummocks.  Half  con- 
sciously he  took  cover  all  he  could.  The  air  was 
alive  with  the  whistle  from  machine-gun  fire  storm- 
ing across  zigzag  fashion — alive  it  was  with  bullets, 
dust,  and  smoke.  "How  shall  I  tell  her?"  he 
thought.  There  would  be  nothing  to  tell  but  just 
a  sort  of  jagged  brown  sensation.  He  kept  his  eyes 
steadily  before  him,  not  wanting  to  see  the  men 
faUing,  not  wanting  anything  to  divert  him  from 
getting  there.  He  felt  the  faint  fanning  of  the 
passing  bullets.  The  second  line  must  be  close 
now.  Why  didn't  that  barrage  lift?  Was  this 
new  dodge  of  firing  till  the  last  second  going  to  do 
them  in?  Another  hundred  yards  and  he  would 
be  bang  into  it.  He  flung  himself  flat  and  waited; 
looking  at  his  wrist-watch  he  noted  that  his  arm 
was  soaked  with  blood.  He  thought:  'A  wound! 
NoAv  I  shall  go  home.     Thank  God!    Oh,  Noel!* 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  117 

The  passing  bullets  whirled  above  him;  he  could 
hear  them  even  through  the  screech  and  thunder  of 
the  shell-lire.  'The  beastly  thhigs!'  he  thought. 
A  voice  beside  him  gasped  out: 

"It's  Hfted,  sir." 

He  called:  "Come  on,  boys!"  and  went  forward, 
stooping.  A  bullet  struck  his  rifle.  The  shock 
made  him  stagger  and  sent  an  electric  shock  spin- 
ning up  his  arm.  'Luck  agam  ! '  he  tliought.  'Now 
for  it !  I  haven't  seen  a  German  yet ! '  He  leaped 
forward,  spun  round,  flung  up  his  arms,  and  feU  on 
his  back,  shot  through  and  through.  .  .  . 

4§ 

The  position  was  consolidated,  as  they  say,  and 
in  the  darkness  stretcher-bearers  were  out  over  the 
half-mile.  Like  wiU-o'-the-wisps,  with  their  shaded 
lanterns,  they  moved,  hour  after  hour,  slowly  quar- 
tering the  black  honeycomb  which  lay  behind  the 
new  British  hne.  Now  and  then  in  the  Hght  of  some 
star-shell  their  figures  were  disclosed,  bending  and 
raising  the  forms  of  the  wounded,  or  wielding  pick 
and  shovel. 

"Officer." 

"Dead?" 

"Sure." 

"Search." 

From  the  shaded  lantern,  lowered  to  just  above 
the  body,  a  yellowish  glare  feU  on  face  and  breast. 
The  hands  of  the  searcher  moved  in  that  little  pool 


ii8  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

of  light.  The  bearer  who  was  taking  notes  bent 
down. 

''Another  boy,"  he  said.     "That  all  he  has?" 

The  searcher  raised  himself. 

"Just  those,  and  a  photo." 

"Dispatch-case;  pound  loose;  cigarette-case;  wrist- 
watch;  photo.     Let's  see  it." 

The  searcher  placed  the  photo  in  the  pool  of 
light.  The  tiny  face  of  a  girl  stared  up  at  them, 
immoved,  from  its  short  hair. 

"Noel,"  said  the  searcher,  reading. 

"H'm!  Take  care  of  it.  Stick  it  in  his  case. 
Come  on ! " 

The  pool  of  light  dissolved,  and  darkness  for  ever 
covered  Cyril  Morland. 


n 


When  those  four  took  their  seats  in  the  Grand 
Circle  at  Queen's  Hall  the  programme  was  already 
at  the  second  number,  which,  in  spite  of  all  the 
efforts  of  patriotism,  was  of  German  origin — a 
Brandenburg  concerto  by  Bach.  More  curious  still, 
it  was  encored.  Pierson  did  not  applaud,  he  was 
too  far  gone  in  pleasure,  and  sat  with  a  rapt  smile 
on  his  face,  obhvious  of  his  surroundings.  He  re- 
mained thus  removed  from  mortal  joys  and  sorrows 
till  the  last  applause  had  died  away,  and  Leila's 
voice  said  in  his  ear: 

"Isn't  it  a  wonderful  audience,  Edward?  Look 
at  all  that  khaki.  Who'd  have  thought  those  young 
men  cared  for  music — good  music — German  music, 
too." 

Pierson  looked  down  at  the  patient  mass  of  stand- 
ing figures  in  straw  hats  and  military  caps,  with 
faces  turned  all  one  way,  and  sighed. 

"I  wish  I  could  get  an  audience  like  that  in  my 
church." 

A  smile  crept  out  at  the  comer  of  Leila's  lips. 
She  was  thinking:  *Ah!  Your  Church  is  out  of 
date,  my  dear,  and  so  are  j^ou !  Your  Church,  with 
its  smell  of  mould  and  incense,  its  stained-glass,  and 
narrowed  length,  and  droning  organ.     Poor  Edward, 

119 


I20  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

so  out  of  the  world !'  But  she  only  pressed  his  arm, 
and  whispered: 

"Look  at  Noel!'* 

The  girl  was  talking  to  Jimmy  Fort.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  and  she  looked  prettier  than  Pierson 
had -seen  her  look  for  a  long  time  now,  ever  since 
Kestrel,  indeed.     He  heard  Leila  sigh. 

"Does  she  get  news  of  her  boy?  Do  you  remem- 
ber that  May  Week,  Edward?  We  were  very 
young  then;  even  you  were  young.  That  was 
such  a  pretty  Httle  letter  you  wrote  me.  I  can  see 
you  still — wandering  in  your  dress  clothes  along  the 
river,  among  the  'holy'  cows." 

But  her  eyes  slid  round  again,  watching  her  other 
neighbour  and  the  girl.  A  vioHnist  had  begun  to 
play  the  Cesar  Franck  Sonata.  It  was  Pierson's 
favourite  piece  of  music,  bringing  him,  as  it  were, 
a  view  of  heaven,  of  devotional  blue  air  where  de- 
vout stars  were  shining  in  a  sunHt  noon,  above 
ecstatic  trees  and  waters  where  ecstatic  swans  were 
swimming. 

"Queer  world,  Mr.  Pierson!  Fancy  those  boys 
having  to  go  back  to  barrack  Hfe  after  listening  to 
that !  What's  your  feeling  ?  Are  we  moving  back 
to  the  apes?  Did  we  touch  top  note  with  that 
Sonata?" 

Pierson  turned  and  contemplated  his  questioner 
shrewdly. 

"No,  Captain  Fort,  I  do  not  think  we  are  moving 
back  to  the  apes;  if  we  ever  came  from  them. 
Those  boys  have  the  souls  of  heroes!" 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  121 

"I  know  that,  sir,  perhaps  better  than  you  do." 
"Ah!  yes,"  said  Pierson  humbly,  ''I  forgot,  of 
course."  But  he  still  looked  at  his  neighbour 
doubtfully.  This  Captain  Fort,  who  was  a  friend 
of  Leila's,  and  who  had  twice  been  to  see  them, 
puzzled  him.  He  had  a  frank  face,  a  frank  voice, 
but  queer  opinions,  or  so  it  seemed  to  Pierson — ■ 
little  bits  of  Moslemism,  Httle  bits  of  the  back- 
woods, and  the  veldt;  queer  unexpected  cynicisms, 
all  sorts  of  side  views  on  England  had  lodged  in 
him,  and  he  did  not  hide  them.  They  came  from 
him  Hke  bullets,  in  that  frank  voice,  and  drilled 
little  holes  in  the  listener.  Those  critical  sayings 
flew  so  much  more  poignantly  from  one  who  had 
been  through  the  same  educational  mill  as  him- 
self, than  if  they  had  merely  come  from  some  rough 
diamond,  some  artist,  some  foreigner,  even  from  a 
doctor  like  George.  And  they  always  made  him 
uncomfortable,  like  the  touch  of  a  prickly  leaf; 
they  did  not  amuse  him.  Certainly  Edward  Pier- 
son shrank  from  the  rough  touches  of  a  knock-about 
philosophy.  After  all,  it  was  but  natural  that  he 
should. 

He  and  Noel  left  after  the  first  part  of  the  con- 
cert, parting  from  the  other  two  at  the  door.  He 
sHpped  his  hand  through  her  arm;  and,  following 
out  those  thoughts  of  his  in  the  concert-hall,  asked : 
Do  you  hke  Captain  Fort,  NoUie?" 
Yes;  he's  a  nice  man." 

He  seems  a  nice  man,  certainly;  he  has  a  nice 
smile,  but  strange  views,  I'm  afraid.'* 


122  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"He  thinks  the  Germans  are  not  much  worse 
than  we  are;  he  says  that  a  good  many  of  us  are 
bullies  too." 

"Yes,  that  is  the  sort  of  thing  I  mean." 

"But  are  we,  Daddy?" 

"Surely  not." 

"A  poHceman  I  talked  to  once  said  the  same. 
Captain  Fort  says  that  very  few  men  can  stand 
having  power  put  into  their  hands  without  being 
spoiled.  He  told  me  some  dreadful  stories.  He 
says  we  have  no  imagination,  so  that  we  often  do 
things  without  seeing  how  brutal  they  are." 

"We're  not  perfect,  NoUie;  but  on  the  whole  I 
think  we're  a  kind  people.'* 

Noel  was  silent  a  moment,  then  said  suddenly: 

"Kind  people  often  think  others  are  kind  too, 
when  they  really  aren't.  Captain  Fort  doesn't 
make  that  mistake." 

"I  think  he's  a  little  cynical,  and  a  little  danger- 


ous." 


"Are  all  people  dangerous  who  don't  think  like 
others,  Daddy?" 

Pierson,  incapable  of  mockery,  was  not  incapable 
of  seeing  when  he  was  being  mocked.  He  looked  at 
his  daughter  with  a  smile. 

"Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  Nollie;  but  Mr.  Fort 
is  certainly  subversive.  I  think  perhaps  he  has 
seen  too  many  queer  sides  of  Ufe." 

"I  like  him  the  better  for  that." 

"Well,  well,"  Pierson  answered  absently.  He  had 
work  to  do  in  preparation  for  a  Confirmation  Class, 
and  sought  his  study  on  getting  in. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  123 

Noel  went  to  the  dining-room  to  drink  her  hot 
milk.  The  curtains  were  not  drawn,  and  bright 
moonUght  was  coming  in.  Without  lighting  up,  she 
set  the  etna  going,  and  stood  looking  at  the  moon 
— ^full  for  the  second  time  since  she  and  Cyril  had 
waited  for  it  in  the  Abbey.  And  pressing  her  hands 
to  her  breast,  she  shivered.  If  only  she  could  sum- 
mon him  from  the  moonlight  out  there;  if  only  she 
were  a  witch — could  see  him,  know  where  he  was, 
what  doing !  For  a  fortnight  now  she  had  received 
no  letter.  Every  day  since  he  had  left  she  had  read 
the  casualty  Usts,  with  the  superstitious  feeling  that 
to  do  so  would  keep  him  out  of  them.  She  took  i  > 
the  Times.  There  was  just  enough  light,  and  she 
read  the  roll  of  honour — till  the  moon  shone  in  on 
her,  lying  on  the  floor,  with  the  dropped  journal.  .  .  . 

But  she  was  proud,  and  soon  took  grief  to  her 
room,  as  on  that  night  after  he  left  her,  she  had 
taken  love.  No  sign  betrayed  to  the  house  her 
disaster;  the  journal  on  the  floor,  and  the  smell  of 
the  burnt  milk  which  had  boiled  over,  revealed 
nothing.  After  aU,  she  was  but  one  of  a  thousand 
hearts  which  spent  that  moonlit  night  in  agony. 
Each  night,  year  in,  year  out,  a  thousand  faces  were 
buried  in  pillows  to  smother  that  first  awful  sense 
of  desolation,  and  grope  for  the  secret  spirit-place 
where  bereaved  souls  go,  to  receive  some  feeble 
touch  of  healing  from  .knowledge  of  each  other's 
trouble.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  she  got  up  from  her  sleepless  bed, 
seemed  to  eat  her  breakfast,  and  went  off  to  her 


124  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

hospital.    There  she  washed  up  plates  and  dishes, 
with  a  stony  face,  dark  under  the  eyes. 


The  news  came  to  Pierson  in  a  letter  from  Thirza, 
received  at  lunch-time.  He  read  it  with  a  dreadful 
aching.  Poor,  poor  Kttle  NoUie!  What  an  awful 
trouble  for  her !  And  he,  too,  went  about  his  work 
with  the  nightmare  thought  that  he  had  to  break 
the  news  to  her  that  evening.  Never  had  he  felt 
more  lonely,  more  dreadfully  in  want  of  the  mother 
of  his  children.  She  would  have  known  how  to 
soothe,  how  to  comfort.  On  her  heart  the  child 
could  have  sobbed  away  grief.  And  all  that  hour, 
from  seven  to  eight,  when  he  was  usually  in  readi- 
ness to  fulfil  the  functions  of  God's  substitute  to 
his  parishioners,  he  spent  in  prayer  of  his  own,  for 
guidance  how  to  inflict  and  heal  this  blow.  When, 
at  last,  Noel  came,  he  opened  the  door  to  her  him- 
self, and,  putting  back  the  hair  from  her  forehead, 
said: 

"Come  in  here  a  moment,  my  darHng !" 

Noel  followed  him  into  the  study,  and  sat  down. 

"I  know  already.  Daddy." 

Pierson  was  more  dismayed  by  this  stoicism  than 
he  would  have  been  by  any  natural  outburst.  He 
stood,  timidly  stroking  her  hair,  murmuring  to  her 
what  he  had  said  to  Gratian,  and  to  so  many  others 
in  these  days:  "There  is  no  death;  look  forward  to 
seeing   him    again;     God    is    merciful."     And    he 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  125 

marvelled  at  the  calmness  of  that  pale  face — so 
young. 

''You  are  very  brave,  my  child !"  he  said. 

"There's  nothing  else  to  be,  is  there?" 

"Isn't  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Nollie?'' 

"No,  Daddy." 

"When  did  you  see  it?" 

"Last  night." 

She  had  already  known  for  twenty-four  hours 
without  telling  him ! 

"Have  you  prayed,  my  darling?" 

"No." 

"Try,  Nollie!" 

"No." 

"Ah,  try!" 

"It  would  be  ridiculous,  Daddy;  you  don't 
know." 

Grievously  upset  and  bewildered,  Pierson  moved 
away  from  her,  and  said: 

"You  look  dreadfully  tired.  Would  you  like  a 
hot  bath,  and  your  dinner  in  bed?" 

"I'd  like  some  tea;  that's  all."  And  she  went 
out. 

When  he  had  seen  that  the  tea  had  gone  up  to 
her,  he  too  went  out;  and,  moved  by  a  longing  for 
woman's  help,  took  a  cab  to  Leila's  flat. 


Ill 


On  leaving  the  concert  Leila  and  Jimmy  Fort 
had  secured  a  taxi;  a  vehicle  which,  at  night,  in 
war-time,  has  certain  advantages  for  those  who 
desire  to  become  better  acquainted.  Vibration, 
sufficient  noise,  darkness,  are  guaranteed;  and  all 
that  is  lacking  for  the  furtherance  of  emotion  is  the 
scent  of  honeysuckle  and  roses,  or  even  of  the  white 
flowering  creeper  which  on  the  stoep  at  High  Con- 
stantia  had  smelled  so  much  sweeter  than  petrol. 

When  Leila  found  herseK  with  Fort  in  that  lone- 
liness to  which  she  had  been  looking  forward,  she 
was  overcome  by  an  access  of  nervous  silence.  She 
had  been  passing  through  a  strange  time  for  weeks 
past.  Every  night  she  examined  her  sensations 
without  quite  understanding  them  as  yet.  When 
a  woman  comes  to  her  age,  the  world-force  is  liable 
to  take  possession,  saying: 

"You  were  young,  you  were  beautiful,  you  still 
have  beauty,  you  are  not,  cannot  be,  old.  Cling  to 
youth,  cUng  to  beauty;  take  all  you  can  get,  before 
your  face  gets  lined  and  your  hair  grey;  it  is  impos- 
sible that  you  have  been  loved  for  the  last  time." 

To  see  Jimmy  Fort  at  the  concert,  talking  to 
Noel,  had  brought  this  emotion  to  a  head.  She  was 
not  of  a  grudging  nature,  and  could  genuinely  ad- 

126 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  127 

mire  Noel,  but  the  idea  that  Jimmy  Fort  might  also 
admire  disturbed  her  greatly.  He  must  not;  it  was 
not  fair;  he  was  too  old — ^besides,  the  girl  had  her 
boy;  and  she  had  taken  care  that  he  should  know 
it.  So,  leaning  towards  him,  while  a  bare-shouldered 
yotmg  lady  sang,  she  had  whispered: 

"Penny?" 

And  he  had  whispered  back: 

"Tell  you  afterwards." 

That  had  comforted  her.  She  would  make  him 
take  her  home.     It  was  time  she  showed  her  heart. 

And  now,  in  the  cab,  resolved  to  make  her  feel- 
ings known,  in  sudden  shyness  she  found  it  very 
difi&cult.  Love,  to  which  for  quite  three  years  she 
had  been  a  stranger,  was  come  to  hfe  within  her. 
The  knowledge  was  at  once  so  sweet,  and  so  dis- 
turbing, that  she  sat  with  face  averted,  unable  to 
turn  the  precious  minutes  to  account.  They  ar- 
rived at  the  flat  without  having  done  more  than 
agree  that  the  streets  were  dark,  and  the  moon 
bright.  She  got  out  with  a  sense  of  bewilderment, 
and  said  rather  desperately: 

"You  must  come  up  and  have  a  cigarette.  It*s 
quite  early,  still." 

He  went  up. 

"Wait  just  a  minute,"  said  Leila. 

Sitting  there  with  his  drink  and  his  cigarette,  he 
stared  at  some  sunflowers  in  a  bowl — Famille  Rose, 
and  waited  just  ten;  smiHng  a  Httle,  recalling  the 
nose  of  the  fairy  princess,  and  the  dainty  way  her 
lips  shaped  the  words  she  spoke.     If  she  had  not 


128  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

had  that  lucky  young  devil  of  a  soldier  boy,  one 
would  have  wanted  to  buckle  her  shoes,  lay  one's 
coat  in  the  mud  for  her,  or  whatever  they  did 
in  fairy-tales.  One  would  have  wanted — ah !  what 
would  one  not  have  wanted !  Hang  that  soldier 
boy!  Leila  said  he  was  twenty-two.  By  George! 
how  old  it  made  a  man  feel  who  was  rising  forty,  and 
tender  on  the  ofif-fore !  No  fairy  princesses  for  him  I 
Then  a  whiff  of  perfume  came  to  his  nostrils;  and, 
looking  up,  he  saw  Leila  standing  before  him,  in  a 
long  garment  of  dark  silk,  whence  her  white  arms 
peeped  out. 

' '  Another  penny  ?  Do  you  remember  these  things, 
Jimmy?  The  Malay  women  used  to  wear  them  in 
Cape  Town.  You  can't  think  what  a  relief  it  is 
to  get  out  of  my  slave's  dress.  Oh!  I'm  so  sick 
of  nursing !    Jimmy,  I  want  to  live  again  a  little ! " 

The  gannent  had  taken  fifteen  years  off  her  age, 
and  a  gardenia,  just  where  the  silk  crossed  on  her 
breast,  seemed  no  whiter  than  her  skin.  He  won- 
dered whimsically  whether  it  had  dropped  to  her 
out  of  the  dark ! 

"Live?"  he  said.     "Why !    Don't  you  always?" 

She  raised  her  hands  so  that  the  dark  silk  fell 
back  from  the  whole  length  of  those  white  arms. 

"I  haven't  Hved  for  two  years.  Oh,  Jimmy! 
Help  me  to  live  a  little  1    Life's  so  short,  now." 

Her  eyes  disturbed  him,  strained  and  pathetic; 
the  sight  of  her  arms;  the  scent  of  the  flower  dis- 
turbed him;  he  felt  his  cheeks  growing  warm,  and 
looked  down. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  129 

She  slipped  suddenly  forward  on  to  her  knees  at 
his  feet,  took  his  hand,  pressed  it  with  both  of  hers, 
and  murmured: 

"Love  me  a  little!  What  else  is  there?  Oh! 
Jimmy,  what  else  is  there?" 

And  with  the  scent  of  the  flower,  crushed  by  their 
hands,  stirring  his  senses,  Fort  thought:  "Ah,  what 
else  is  there,  in  these  forsaken  days?" 

To  Jimmy  Fort,  who  had  a  sense  of  humour,  and 
was  in  some  sort  a  philosopher,  the  haphazard  way 
life  settled  things  seldom  failed  to  seem  amusing. 
But  when  he  walked  away  from  Leila's  he  was  pen- 
sive. She  was  a  good  sort,  a  pretty  creature,  a 
sportswoman,  an  enchantress;  but — she  was  de- 
cidedly mature.  And  here  he  was— mvolved  in 
helping  her  to  'live';  involved  almost  alarmingly, 
for  there  had  been  no  mistaking  the  fact  that  she 
had  reaUy  fallen  in  love  with  him. 

This  was  flattering  and  sweet.  Times  were  sad, 
and  pleasure  scarce,  but — !  The  roving  instinct 
which  had  kept  him,  from  his  youth  up,  rolling  about 
the  world,  shied  instinctively  at  bonds,  however 
pleasant,  the  strength  and  thickness  of  which  he 
could  not  gauge;  or,  was  it  that  perhaps  for  the 
first  time  in  his  hfe  he  had  been  peeping  into  fairy- 
land of  late,  and  this  affair  with  Leila  was  by  no 
means  fairyland?  He  had  another  reason,  more 
unconscious,  for  uneasiness.    His  heart,  for  all  his 


I30  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

wanderings,  was  soft,  he  had  always  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  hurt  anyone,  especially  anyone  who  did  him 
the  honour  to  love  him.  A  sort  of  presentiment 
weighed  on  him  while  he  walked  the  moonlit  streets 
at  this  most  empty  hour,  when  even  the  late  taxis 
had  ceased  to  run.  Would  she  want  him  to  marry 
her?  Would  it  be  his  duty,  if  she  did?  And  then 
he  found  himself  thinking  of  the  concert,  and  that 
girl's  face,  listening  to  the  tales  he  was  telling  her. 
*  Deuced  queer  world'  he  thought,  Hhe  way  things 
go!  I  wonder  what  she  would  think  of  us,  if  she 
knew — and  that  good  padre !    Phew ! ' 

He  made  such  very  slow  progress,  for  fear  of  giv- 
ing way  in  his  leg,  and  having  to  spend  the  night 
on  a  door-step,  that  he  had  plenty  of  time  for  rumi- 
nation; but  since  it  brought  him  no  confidence 
whatever,  he  began  at  last  to  feel:  'Well,  it  might 
be  a  lot  worse.  Take  the  goods  the  gods  send  you, 
and  don't  fuss!'  And  suddenly  he  remembered 
with  extreme  vividness  that  night  on  the  stoep  at 
High  Constantia,  and  thought  with  dismay:  *I 
could  have  plunged  in  over  head  and  ears  then; 
and  now — I  can't!  That's  hfe  all  over!  Poor 
Leila!    Me  miserum,  too,  perhaps — ^who  knows!' 


IV 

When  Leila  opened  her  door  to  Edward  Pierson, 
her  eyes  were  smiling,  and  her  Lips  were  soft.  She 
seemed  to  smile  and  be  soft  all  over,  and  she  took 
both  his  hands.  Everything  was  a  pleasure  to  her 
that  day,  even  the  sight  of  this  sad  face.  She  was 
in  love  and  was  loved  again;  had  a  present  and  a 
future  once  more,  not  only  her  own  full  past;  and 
she  must  finish  with  Edward  in  half  an  hour,  for 
Jimmy  was  coming.  She  sat  down  on  the  divan, 
took  his  hand  in  a  sisterly  way,  and  said: 

"Tell  me,  Edward;  I  can  see  you're  in  trouble. 
What  is  it?" 

"Noel.  The  boy  she  was  fond  of  has  been 
kiUed." 

She  dropped  his  hand,  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"Oh,  no!  Poor  child!  It's  too  cruel!"  The 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  clearing  Httle  runlets 
through  the  fight  film  of  powder  there,  and,  con- 
sciously, she  rubbed  them  over  with  a  tiny  hand- 
kerchief. "Poor,  poor  fittle  Noel!  Was  she  very 
fond  of  him?" 

"A  very  sudden,  short  engagement;  but  I'm 
afraid  she  takes  it  desperately  to  heart.  I  don't 
know  how  to  comfort  her;  only  a  woman  could.  I 
came  to  ask  you :  Do  you  think  she  ought  to  go  on 

131 


132  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

with  her  work?    What  do  you  think,  Leila ?    I  feel 
lost!" 

Leila,  gazing  at  him,  thought:  'Lost?  Yes,  you 
look  lost,  my  poor  Edward  ! ' 

''I  should  let  her  go  on,"  she  said:  "it  helps; 
it's  the  only  thing  that  does  help.  I'll  see  if  I  can 
get  them  to  let  her  come  into  the  wards.  She  ought 
to  be  in  touch  with  suffering  and  the  men;  that 
kitchen  work  will  try  her  awfully  just  now.  Was 
he  very  young  ?  " 

"Yes.  They  wanted  to  get  married.  I  was  op- 
posed to  it." 

Leila's  Hp  curled  ever  so  little.  *You  would  be !' 
she  thought. 

"I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  Nollie  giving  herself 
hastily,  Uke  that;  they  had  only  known  each  other 
three  weeks.  It  was  very  hard  for  me,  Leila.  And 
then  suddenly  he  was  sent  to  the  front." 

Resentment  welled  up  in  Leila.  The  kill-joys! 
As  if  life  didn't  kill  joy  fast  enough!  Her  cousin's 
face  at  that  moment  was  almost  abhorrent  to  her, 
its  gentle  perplexed  goodness  darkened  and  warped 
by  that  monkish  look.  She  turned  away,  glanced 
at  the  clock  over  the  hearth,  and  thought:  'Yes, 
and  he  would  stop  Jimmy  and  me !  He  would  say: 
"Oh,  no!  dear  Leila — you  mustn't  love — it's  sin!" 
How  I  hate  that  word ! ' 

"I  think  the  most  dreadful  thing  in  life,"  she 
said  abruptly,  "is  the  way  people  suppress  their 
natural  instincts;  what  they  suppress  in  themselves 
they  make  other  people  suppress  too,  if  they  can; 
and  that's  the  cause  of  half  the  misery  in  this  world." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  133 

Then  at  the  surprise  on  his  face  at  this  little  out- 
burst, whose  cause  he  could  not  know,  she  added 
hastily:  "I  hope  Noel  will  get  over  it  quickly,  and 
find  someone  else." 

''Yes.  If  they  had  been  married — ^how  much 
worse  it  would  have  been.  Thank  God,  they 
weren't!" 

"I  don't  know.  They  would  have  had  their  hour 
of  bhss.  Even  an  hour  of  bliss  is  worth  something 
in  these  days." 

"To  those  who  only  believe  in  this  Hfe — ^perhaps." 

'Ten  minutes  more!'  she  thought:  'Oh,  why 
doesn't  he  go?'  But  at  that  very  moment  he  got 
up,  and  instantly  her  heart  went  out  to  him  again. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Edward.  If  I  can  help  in  any 
way — I'll  try  my  best  with  Noel  to-morrow;  and 
do  come  to  me  whenever  you  feel  inclined." 

She  took  his  hand  in  both  of  hers;  and  though 
she  was  afraid  he  would  sit  down  again,  she  could 
not  for  the  Hfe  of  her  help  a  soft  glance  into  his 
eyes,  and  a  Httle  rush  of  pitying  warmth  in  the  pres- 
sure of  her  hand. 

Pierson  smiled;  the  smile  which  always  made 
her  sorry  for  him. 

"Good-bye,  Leila;  you're  very  good  and  kind  to 
me.     Good-bye." 

Her  bosom  swelled  with  relief  and  compassion; 
and — she  let  him  out. 

Running  up  the  stairs  again  she  thought:  'I've 
just  time.  What  shall  I  put  on?  Poor  Edward, 
poor  Noel !  What  colour  does  Jimmy  like  ?  Oh ! 
Why  didn't  I  keep  him  those  ten  years  ago — what 


134  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

utter  waste!'  And,  feverishly  adorning  herself, 
she  came  back  to  the  window,  and  stood  there  in 
the  dark  to  watch,  while  some  jasmine  which  grew 
below  sent  up  its  scent  to  her.  'Would  I  marry 
him?'  she  thought  *if  he  asked  me?  But  he  won't 
ask  me — ^why  should  he  now?  Besides,  I  couldn't 
bear  him  to  feel  I  wanted  position  or  money  from 
him.  I  only  want  love — love — ^love!'  The  silent 
repetition  of  that  word  gave  her  a  wonderful  sense 
of  soUdity  and  comfort.  So  long  as  she  only  wanted 
love,  surely  he  would  give  it. 

A  tall  figure  turned  down  past  the  church,  coming 
towards  her.  It  was  he!  And  suddenly  she  be- 
thought herself.  She  went  to  the  Httle  black  piano, 
sat  down,  and  began  to  sing  the  song  she  had  sung 
to  him  ten  years  ago:  "If  I  could  be  the  falling  dew 
and  fall  on  thee  all  day!"  She  didn't  even  look 
round  when  he  came  in,  but  continued  to  croon  out 
the  words,  conscious  of  him  just  behind  her  shoulder 
in  the  dark.  But  when  she  had  finished,  she  got 
up  and  threw  her  arms  round  him,  strained  him  to 
her,  and  burst  into  tears  on  his  shoulder;  thinking 
of  Noel  and  that  dead  boy,  thinking  of  the  millions 
of  other  boys,  thinking  of  her  own  happiness,  think- 
ing of  those  ten  years  wasted,  of  how  short  was  life, 
and  love;  thinking— hardly  knowing  what  she 
thought!  And  Jimmy  Fort,  very  moved  by  this 
emotion  which  he  only  half  understood,  pressed  her 
tightly  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  wet  cheeks  and 
her  neck,  pale  and  warm  in  the  darkness. 


Noel  went  on  with  her  work  for  a  month,  and 
then,  one  morning,  fainted  over  a  pile  of  dishes. 
The  noise  attracted  attention,  and  Mrs.  Lynch  was 
summoned. 

The  sight  of  her  lying  there  so  deadly  white  taxed 
Leila's  nerves  severely.  But  the  girl  revived  quickly, 
and  a  cab  was  sent  for.  Leila  went  with  her,  and 
told  the  driver  to  stop  at  Camelot  Mansions.  Why 
take  her  home  in  this  state,  why  not  save  the  jolt- 
ing, and  let  her  recover  properly?  They  went  up- 
stairs arm  in  arm.  Leila  made  her  lie  down  on  the 
divan,  and  put  a  hot-water  bottle  to  her  feet.  Noel 
was  still  so  passive  and  pale  that  even  to  speak  to 
her  seemed  a  cruelty.  And,  going  to  her  Uttle  side- 
board, Leila  stealthily  extracted  a  pint  bottle  of 
some  champagne  which  Jimmy  Fort  had  sent  in, 
and  took  it  with  two  glasses  and  a  corkscrew  into 
her  bedroom.  She  drank  a  little  herself,  and  came 
out  bearing  a  glass  to  the  girl.  Noel  shook  her 
head,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  say:  "Do  you  really 
think  I'm  so  easily  mended?"  But  Leila  had  been 
through  too  much  in  her  time  to  despise  earthly 
remedies,  and  she  held  it  to  the  girl's  lips  until  she 

135 


136  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

drank.  It  was  excellent  champagne,  and,  since 
Noel  had  never  yet  touched  alcohol,  had  an  instan- 
taneous effect.  Her  eyes  brightened ;  little  red  spots 
came  up  in  her  cheeks.  And  suddenly  she  rolled 
over  and  buried  her  face  deep  in  a  cushion.  With 
her  short  hair,  she  looked  so  like  a  child  lying  there, 
that  Leila  knelt  down,  stroking  her  head,  and  say- 
ing:  "There,  there;  my  love!   There,  there ! '* 

At  last  the  girl  raised  herself;  now  that  the  pallid, 
mask-like  despair  of  the  last  month  was  broken, 
she  seemed  on  fire,  and  her  face  had  a  wild  look. 
She  withdrew  herself  from  Leila's  touch,  and,  cross- 
ing her  arms  tightly  across  her  chest,  said: 

"I  can't  bear  it;  I  can't  sleep.  I  want  him  back; 
I  hate  life — I  hate  the  world.  We  hadn't  done  any- 
thing— only  just  loved  each  other.  God  likes  pun- 
ishing; just  because  we  loved  each  other;  we  had 
only  one  day  to  love  each  other — only  one  day — 
only  one!" 

Leila  could  see  the  long  white  throat  above  those 
rigid  arms  straining  and  swallowing;  it  gave  her  a 
choky  feeling  to  watch  it.  The  voice,  uncannily 
dainty  for  all  the  wildness  of  the  words  and  face, 
went  on: 

"I  won't — I  don't  want  to  Hve.  If  there's  another 
life,  I  shall  go  to  him.  And  if  there  isn't — it's  just 
sleep." 

Leila  put  out  her  hand  to  ward  off  these  wild 
wanderings.  Like  most  women  who  live  simply 
the  life  of  their  senses  and  emotions,  she  was  or- 
thodox, or  rather  never  speculated  on  such  things. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  137 

"Tell  me  about  yourself  and  him,"  she  said. 

Noel  fastened  her  great  eyes  on  her  cousin.  "We 
loved  each  other;  and  children  are  born,  aren't 
they,  after  you've  loved?  But  mine  won't  be!" 
From  the  look  on  her  face  rather  than  from  her 
words,  the  full  reality  of  her  meaning  came  to  Leila, 
vanished,  came  again.  Nonsense!  But — ^what  an 
awful  thing,  if  true !  That  which  had  always  seemed 
to  her  such  an  exaggerated  occurrence  in  the  com- 
mon walks  of  Hfe — why!  now,  it  was  a  tragedy! 
Instinctively  she  raised  herseK  and  put  her  arms 
round  the  girl. 

"My  poor  dear!"  she  said;  "you're  fancying 
things!" 

The  colour  had  faded  out  of  Noel's  face,  and,  with 
her  head  thrown  back  and  her  eyelids  half-closed, 
she  looked  like  a  scornful  young  ghost. 

"If  it  is — I  shan't  live.  I  don't  mean  to — it's 
easy  to  die.    I  don't  mean  Daddy  to  know." 

"Oh!  my  dear,  my  dear!"  was  all  Leila  could 
stammer. 

"Was  it  wrong,  Leila?" 

"Wrong?  I  don't  know — ^wrong?  If  it  really 
is  so — ^it  was — unfortunate.  But  surely,  surely — 
you're  mistaken?" 

Noel  shook  her  head.  "I  did  it  so  that  we  should 
belong  to  each  other.  Nothing  could  have  taken 
him  from  me." 

Leila  caught  at  the  girl's  words. 

"Then,  my  dear — he  hasn't  quite  gone  from  you, 
you  see?" 


138  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Noel's  lips  formed  a  "No"  which  was  inaudible. 
"But  Daddy!"  she  whispered. 

Edward's  face  came  before  Leila  so  vividly  that 
she  could  hardly  see  the  girl  for  the  tortured  shape 
of  it.  Then  the  hedonist  in  her  revolted  against 
that  ascetic  vision.  Her  worldly  judgment  con- 
demned and  deplored  this  calamity,  her  instinct 
could  not  help  applauding  that  hour  of  life  and 
love,  snatched  out  of  the  jaws  of  death.  "Need  he 
ever  know?"  she  said. 

"I  could  never  lie  to  Daddy.  But  it  doesn't 
matter.  Why  should  one  go  on  living,  when  Hfe 
is  rotten?" 

Outside  the  sun  was  shining  brightly,  though  it 
was  late  October.  Leila  got  up  from  her  knees. 
She  stood  at  the  window  thinking  hard. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  at  last,  "you  mustn't  get 
morbid.  Look  at  me!  I've  had  two  husbands, 
and — and — ^well,  a  pretty  stormy  up  and  down 
time  of  it;  and  I  daresay  I've  got  lots  of  trouble 
before  me.  But  I'm  not  going  to  cave  in.  Nor 
must  you.  The  Piersons  have  plenty  of  pluck; 
you  mustn't  be  a  traitor  to  your  blood.  That's  the 
last  thing.  Your  boy  would  have  told  you  to  stick 
it.  These  are  your  'trenches,'  and  you're  not 
going  to  be  downed,  are  you?" 

After  she  had  spoken  there  was  a  long  silence, 
before  Noel  said: 

"Give  me  a  cigarette,  Leila." 

Leila  produced  the  little  flat  case  she  carried. 

"That's  brave,"  she  said.     "Nothing's  incurable 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  139 

at  your  age.  Only  one  thing's  incurable — ^getting 
old." 

Noel  laughed.     "That's  curable  too,  isn't  it?" 

"Not  without  surrender." 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  while  the  blue  fume 
from  two  cigarettes  fast-smoked,  rose  towards  the 
low  ceiHng.  Then  Noel  got  up  from  the  divan,  and 
went  over  to  the  piano.  She  was  still  in  her  hos- 
pital dress  of  lilac-coloured  linen,  and  while  she 
stood  there  touching  the  keys,  playing  a  chord  now 
and  then,  Leila's  heart  felt  hollow  from  compassion; 
she  was  so  happy  herself  just  now,  and  this  child 
so  very  wretched ! 

"Play  to  me,"  she  said;  "no — don't;  I'll  play  to 
you."  And  sitting  down,  she  began  to  play  and 
sing  a  Httle  French  song,  whose  first  line  ran :  ''Si  on 
estjolie,jolie  comme  vous."  It  was  soft,  gay,  charm- 
ing. If  the  girl  cried,  so  much  the  better.  But 
Noel  did  not  cry.  She  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
recovered  all  her  self-possession.  She  spoke  calmly, 
answered  Leila's  questions  without  emotion,  and 
said  she  would  go  home.  Leila  went  out  with  her, 
and  walked  some  way  in  the  direction  of  her  home; 
distressed,  but  frankly  at  a  loss.  At  the  bottom 
of  Portland  Place  Noel  stopped  and  said:  "I'm 
quite  all  right  now,  Leila;  thank  you  awfully.  I 
shall  just  go  home  and  lie  down.  And  I  shall  come 
to-morrow,  the  same  as  usual.  Good-bye!"  Leila 
could  only  grasp  the  girl's  hand,  and  say:  "My  dear, 
that's  splendid.  There's  many  a  sHp — ^besides,  it's 
war-time." 


I40  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

With  that  saying,  enigmatic  even  to  herself,  she 
watched  the  girl  moving  slowly  away;  and  turned 
back  herself  towards  her  hospital,  with  a  disturbed 
and  compassionate  heart. 

But  Noel  did  not  go  east;  she  walked  down  Re- 
gent Street.  She  had  received  a  certain  measure 
of  comfort,  been  steadied  by  her  experienced  cousin's 
vitahty,  and  the  new  thoughts  suggested  by  those 
words:  "He  hasn't  quite  gone  from  you,  has  he?'* 
"Besides,  it's  war-time."  Leila  had  spoken  freely, 
too,  and  the  physical  ignorance  in  which  the  girl 
had  been  groping  these  last  weeks  was  now  removed. 
Like  most  proud  natures,  she  did  not  naturally 
think  much  about  the  opinion  of  other  people;  be- 
sides, she  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  its  feeHngs  and 
judgments.  Her  nightmare  was  the  thought  of  her 
father's  horror  and  grief.  She  tried  to  lessen  that 
nightmare  by  remembering  his  opposition  to  her 
marriage,  and  the  resentment  she  had  felt.  He  had 
never  realised,  never  understood,  how  she  and  Cyril 
loved.  Now,  if  she  were  really  going  to  have  a 
child,  it  would  be  Cyril's — Cyril's  son — Cyril  over 
again.  The  instinct  stronger  than  reason,  refine- 
ment, tradition,  upbringing,  which  had  pushed  her 
on  in  such  haste  to  make  sure  of  union — the  irrepres- 
sible pulse  of  life  faced  with  annihilation — seemed 
to  revive  within  her,  and  make  her  terrible  secret 
almost  precious.     She  had  read  about  "  War  babies'  * 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  141 

in  the  papers,  read  with  a  dull  curiosity;  but  now 
the  atmosphere,  as  it  were,  of  those  writings  was 
illumined  for  her.  These  babies  were  wrong,  were 
a  "problem,"  and  yet,  behind  all  that,  she  seemed 
now  to  know  that  people  were  glad  of  them;  they 
made  up,  they  filled  the  gaps.  Perhaps,  when  she 
had  one,  she  would  be  proud,  secretly  proud,  in 
spite  of  everyone,  in  spite  of  her  father !  They  had 
tried  to  kill  Cyril — God  and  everyone;  but  they 
hadn't  been  able,  he  was  ahve  within  her !  A  glow 
came  into  her  face,  walking  among  the  busy  shop- 
ping crowd,  and  people  turned  to  look  at  her;  she-' 
had  that  appearance  of  seeing  no  one,  nothing, 
which  is  strange  and  attractive  to  those  who  have  a 
moment  to  spare  from  contemplation  of  their  own 
affairs.  Fully  two  hours  she  wandered  thus,  be- 
fore going  in,  and  only  lost  that  exalted  feeling  when, 
in  her  own  httle  room,  she  had  taken  up  his  photo- 
graph, and  was  sitting  on  her  bed  gazing  at  it. 
She  had  a  bad  breakdown  then.  Locked  in  there, 
she  lay  on  her  bed,  crying,  dreadfully  lonely,  till  she 
feU  asleep  exhausted,  with  the  little  tear-stained 
photo  clutched  in  her  twitching  fingers.  She  woke 
with  a  start.  It  was  dark,  and  someone  was  knock- 
ing on  her  door. 

"Miss  Noel!" 

Childish  perversity  kept  her  silent.  Why  couldn't 
they  leave  her  alone?  They  would  leave  her  alone 
if  they  knew.  Then  she  heard  another  kind  of 
knocking,  and  her  father's  voice: 

"NoUie!    NoUie!"  ^' 


142  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

She  scrambled  up,  and  opened.  He  looked  scared, 
and  her  heart  smote  her. 

"It's  all  right,  Daddy;  I  was  asleep." 
"My  dear,  I'm  sorry,  but  dinner's  ready." 
"I  don't  want  any  dinner;  I  think  I'll  go  to  bed." 
The  frown  between  his  brows  deepened. 
"You  shouldn't  lock  your  door,  NolUe.     I  was 
quite  frightened.     I  went  round  to  the  hospital  to 
bring  you  home,  and  they  told  me  about  your  faint- 
ing.    I  want  you  to  see  a  doctor." 

Noel  shook  her  head  vigorously.  "Oh,  no!  It*s 
nothing!" 

"Nothing?  To  faint  like  that?  Come,  my 
child.  To  please  me."  He  took  her  face  in  his 
hands.     Noel  shrank  away. 

"No,  Daddy.  I  won't  see  a  doctor.  Extrava- 
gance in  war-time !  I  won't.  It's  no  good  trying 
to  make  me.  I'll  come  down  if  you  like;  I  shall  be 
all  right  to-morrow." 

With  this  Pierson  had  to  be  content;  but,  often 
that  evening,  she  saw  him  looking  at  her  anxiously. 
And  when  she  went  up,  he  came  out  of  his  study, 
followed  to  her  room,  and  insisted  on  hghting  her 
fire.  Kissing  her  at  the  door,  he  said  very  quietly: 
"I  wish  I  could  be  a  mother  to  you,  my  child !" 
For  a  moment  it  flashed  through  Noel:  'He 
knows ! '  then,  by  the  puzzled  look  on  his  face,  she 
knew  that  he  did  not.  If  only  he  did  know;  what 
a  weight  it  would  be  off  her  mind !  But  she  an- 
swered quietly  too;  "Good  night,  Daddy  dear!" 
kissed  him,  and  shut  the  door. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  143 

She  sat  down  before  the  little  new  fire,  and  spread 
her  hands  out  to  it;  all  was  so  cold  and  wintry 
in  her  heart.  And  the  fireUght  flickered  on  her 
face,  where  shadows  lay  thick  under  her  eyes,  for 
all  the  roundness  of  her  cheeks,  and  on  her  slim  pale 
hands,  and  the  supple  grace  of  her  young  body. 
And  out  in  the  night,  clouds  raced  over  the  moon, 
which  had  come  full  once  more. 


VI 

I§ 

PiERSON  went  back  to  his  study,  and  wrote  to 
Gratian. 

"  If  you  can  get  leave  for  a  few  days,  my  dear,  I  want  you 
at  home.  I  am  troubled  about  Nollie.  Ever  since  that  dis- 
aster happened  to  her  she  has  been  getting  paler;  and  to-day 
she  fainted.  She  won't  see  a  doctor,  but  perhaps  you  could 
get  her  to  see  George.  If  you  come  up,  he  will  surely  be 
able  to  run  up  to  us  for  a  day  or  two.  If  not,  you  must 
take  her  down  to  him  at  the  sea.  I  have  just  seen  the  news 
of  your  second  cousin  Charlie  Pierson's  death;  he  was 
killed  in  one  of  the  last  attacks  on  the  Somme;  he  was 
nephew  of  my  cousin  Leila  whom,  as  you  know,  Noel  sees 
every  day  at  her  hospital.  Bertram  has  the  D.  S.  O.  I 
have  been  less  hard-pressed  lately;  Lauder  has  been  home 
on  leave  and  has  taken  some  Services  for  me.  And  now  the 
colder  weather  has  come,  I  am  feeling  much  fresher.  Try 
your  best  to  come.  I  am  seriously  concerned  for  our  be- 
loved child. 

"Your  affectionate  father, 

"Edward  Pierson." 

Gratian  answered  that  she  could  get  week-end 
leave,  and  would  come  on  Friday.  He  met  her  at 
the  station,  and  they  drove  thence  straight  to  the 
hospital,  to  pick  up  Noel.  Leila  came  to  them  in 
the  waiting-room,  and  Pierson,  thinking  they  would 
talk  more  freely  about  Noel's  health  if  he  left  them 

144 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  145 

^lone,  went  into  the  recreation  room,  and  stood 
watching  a  game  of  bagatelle  between  two  con- 
valescents. When  he  returned  to  the  little  sitting- 
room  they  were  still  standing  by  the  hearth,  talking 
in  low  voices.  Gratian  must  surely  have  been  stoop- 
ing over  the  fire,  for  her  face  was  red,  almost  swollen, 
and  her  eyes  looked  as  if  she  had  scorched  them. 

Leila  said  Hghtly: 

"  Well,  Edward,  aren't  the  men  dehghtful  ?  When 
are  we  going  to  another  concert  together?" 

She,  too,  was  flushed  and  looking  almost  young. 

"Ah !    If  we  could  do  the  things  we  want  to." 

"That's  very  pretty,  Edward;  but  you  should, 
you  know — for  a  tonic."  He  shook  his  head  and 
smiled. 

"You're  a  temptress,  Leila.  Will  you  let  Nolhe 
know,  please,  that  we  can  take  her  back  with  us  ? 
Can  you  let  her  off  to-morrow?" 

"For  as  long  as  you  like;  she  wants  a  rest.  I've 
been  talking  to  Gratian.  We  oughtn't  to  have  let 
her  go  on  after  a  shock  like  that — my  fault,  I'm 
afraid.     I  thought  that  work  might  be  best." 

Pierson  was  conscious  of  Gratian  walking  past 
him  out  of  the  room.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Leila, 
and  followed.  A  small  noise  occurred  behind  him 
such  as  a  woman  makes  Vv^hen  she  has  put  a  foot 
through  her  own  skirt,  or  has  other  powerful  cause 
for  dismay.  Then  he  saw  Noel  in  the  hall,  and  was 
vaguely  aware  of  being  the  centre  of  a  triangle  of 
women  whose  eyes  were  playing  catch-glance.  His 
daughters  kissed  each  other;  and  he  became  seated 


146  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

between  them  in  the  taxi.  The  most  unobservant 
of  men,  he  parted  from  them  in  the  hall  without 
having  perceived  anything  except  that  they  were 
rather  silent;  and,  going  to  his  study,  he  took  up  a 
Life  of  Sir  Thomas  More.  There  was  a  passage 
therein  which  he  itched  to  show  George  Laird,  who 
was  coming  up  that  evening. 

Gratian  and  Noel  had  mounted  the  stairs  with 
lips  tight  set,  and  eyes  averted;  both  were  very 
pale.  When  they  reached  the  door  of  Gratian's 
room — the  room  which  had  been  their  mother's — 
Noel  was  for  passing  on,  but  Gratian  caught  her  by 
the  arm,  and  said:  "Come  in."  The  fire  was 
burning  brightly  in  there,  and  the  two  sisters  stood 
in  front  of  it,  one  on  each  side,  their  hands  clutching 
the  mantel-shelf,  staring  at  the  flames.  At  last  Noel 
put  one  hand  in  front  of  her  eyes,  and  said: 

"I  asked  her  to  tell  you." 

Gratian  made  the  movement  of  one  who  is  gripped 
by  two  strong  emotions,  and  longs  to  surrender  to 
one  or  to  the  other. 

"It's  too  horrible,"  was  all  she  said. 

Noel  turned  towards  the  door. 

"Stop,  NoUie!" 

Noel  stopped  with  her  hand  on  the  door  knob. 
"I  don't  want  to  be  forgiven  and  sympathised  with. 
I  just  want  to  be  let  alone. '^ 

"How  can  you  be  let  alone?" 

The  tide  of  misery  surged  up  in  Noel,  and  she 
cried  out  passionately:  "I  hate  sympathy  from 
people  who  can't  understand.  I  don't  want  any- 
one's.    I  can  always  go  away,  and  lose  myself." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  147 

The  words  "can't  understand"  gave  Gratian  a 
shock. 

"I  can  understand,"  she  said. 

"You  can't;  you  never  saw  him.  You  never 
saw — "  her  Hps  quivered  so  that  she  had  to  stop 
and  bite  them,  to  keep  back  a  rush  of  tears.  "Be- 
sides you  would  never  have  done  it  yourself." 

Gratian  went  towards  her,  but  stopped,  and  sat 
down  on  the  bed.  It  was  true.  She  would  never 
have  done  it  herself;  it  was  just  that  which,  for  all 
her  longing  to  help  her  sister,  iced  her  love  and 
sympathy.  How  terrible,  wretched,  humihating! 
Her  own  sister,  her  only  sister,  in  the  position  of  all 
those  poor,  badly  brought  up  girls,  who  forgot 
themselves!  And  her  father — their  father!  Till 
that  moment  she  had  hardly  thought  of  him,  too 
preoccupied  by  the  shock  to  her  own  pride.  The 
word:  "Dad!"  was  forced  from  her. 

Noel  shuddered. 

"That  boy!"  said  Gratian  suddenly:  "I  can't 
forgive  him.  If  you  didn't  know — he  did.  It  was 
— ^it  was — "    She  stopped  at  the  sight  of  Noel's  face. 

"I  did  know,"  she  said.  "It  was  I.  He  was  my 
husband,  as  much  as  yours  is.  If  you  say  a  word 
against  him,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again.  I'm 
glad,  and  you  would  be,  if  you  were  going  to  have 
one.  What's  the  dijBFerence,  except  that  you've 
had  luck,  and  I — ^haven't."  Her  lips  quivered  again, 
and  she  was  silent. 

Gratian  stared  up  at  her.  She  had  a  longing  for 
George — to  know  what  he  thought  and  felt. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  tell  George?"  she  said. 


148  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Noel  shook  her  head.  "No;  not  now.  Tell 
anybody."  And  suddenly  the  misery  behind  the 
mask  of  her  face  went  straight  to  Gratian's  heart. 
She  got  up  and  put  her  arms  round  her  sister. 

"NoUie  dear,  don't  look  like  that!" 

Noel  suffered  the  embrace  without  response,  but 
when  it  was  over,  went  to  her  own  room. 

Gratian  stayed,  sorry,  sore  and  vexed,  uncertain, 
anxious.  Her  pride  was  deeply  wounded,  her  heart 
torn;  she  was  angry  with  herself.  Why  couldn't 
she  have  been  more  sympathetic?  And  yet,  now 
that  Noel  was  no  longer  there,  she  again  condemned 
the  dead.  What  he  had  done  was  unpardonable. 
NoUie  was  such  a  child !  He  had  committed  sac- 
rilege. If  only  George  would  come,  and  she  could 
talk  it  all  out  with  him !  She,  who  had  married  for 
love  and  known  passion,  had  insight  enough  to  feel 
that  Noel's  love  had  been  deep — so  far  as  anything, 
of  course,  could  be  deep  in  such  a  child.  Gratian 
was  at  the  mature  age  of  twenty.  But  to  have  for- 
gotten herself  hke  that!  And  this  boy!  If  she 
had  known  him,  that  feeling  might  have  been  miti- 
gated by  the  personal  element,  so  important  to  all 
human  judgment;  but  never  having  seen  him,  she 
thought  of  his  conduct  as  'caddish.'  And  she 
knew  that  this  was,  and  would  be,  the  trouble  be- 
tween her  and  her  sister.  However  she  might  dis- 
guise it,  Noel  would  feel  that  judgment  under- 
neath. 

She  stripped  off  her  nurse's  garb,  put  on  an 
evening  frock,  and  fidgeted  about  the  room.     Any- 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  149 

thing  rather  than  go  down  and  see  her  father  again 
before  she  must.  This,  which  had  happened,  was 
beyond  words  terrible  for  him;  she  dreaded  the 
talk  with  him  about  Noel's  health  which  would 
have  to  come.  She  could  say  nothing,  of  course, 
until  Noel  wished;  and,  very  truthful  by  nature, 
the  idea  of  having  to  act  a  lie  distressed  her. 

She  went  down  at  last,  and  found  them  both  in 
the  drawing-room  already;  Noel  in  a  frilly  evening 
frock,  sitting  by  the  fire  with  her  chin  on  her  hand, 
while  her  father  was  reading  out  the  war  news  from 
the  evening  paper.  At  sight  of  that  cool,  dainty, 
girHsh  figure  brooding  over  the  fire,  and  of  her 
father's  worn  face,  the  tragedy  of  this  business 
thrust  itself  on  her  with  redoubled  force.  Poor 
Dad!  Poor  Nolhe!  Awful!  Then  Noel  turned, 
and  gave  a  Httle  shake  of  her  head,  and  her  eyes 
said,  almost  as  plainly  as  lips  could  have  said  it: 
''Silence!"  Gratian  nodded,  and  came  forward  to 
the  fire.  And  so  began  one  of  those  calm,  domestic 
evenings,  which  cover  sometimes  such  depths  of 
heartache. 

Noel  stayed  up  until  her  father  went  to  bed,  then 
went  upstairs  at  once.  She  had  evidently  deter- 
mined that  they  should  not  talk  about  her.  Gra- 
tian sat  on  alone,  waiting  for  her  husband !  It  was 
nearly  midnight  when  he  came,  and  she  did  not  tell 
him  the  family  news  till  next  morning.  He  received 
it  with  a  curious  Httle  grunt.     Gratian  saw  his  eyes 


I50  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

contract,  as  they  might  have,  perhaps,  looking  at 
some  bad  and  compHcated  wound,  and  then  stare 
steadily  at  the  ceiling.  Though  they  had  been 
married  over  a  year,  she  did  not  yet  know  what  he 
thought  about  many  things,  and  she  waited  with  a 
queer  sinking  at  her  heart.  This  skeleton  in  the 
family  cupboard  was  a  test  of  his  affection  for  her- 
self, a  test  of  the  quality  of  the  man  she  had  mar- 
ried. He  did  not  speak  for  a  little,  and  her  anxiety 
grew.  Then  his  hand  sought  hers,  and  gave  it  a 
hard  squeeze. 

"Poor  httle  NoUie!  This  is  a  case  for  Mark 
Tapleyism.  But  cheer  up,  Gracie!  We'll  get  her 
through  somehow." 

"But  father!  It's  impossible  to  keep  it  from 
him,  and  impossible  to  tell  him!  Oh  George!  I 
never  knew  what  family  pride  was  till  now.  It's 
incredible.    That  wretched  boy ! " 

"'Z>e  mortuis.'  Come,  Gracie!  In  the  midst  of 
death  we  are  in  life!  NoUie  was  a  plumb  little 
idiot.  But  it's  the  war — the  war!  Your  father 
must  get  used  to  it;  it's  a  rare  chance  for  his  Chris- 
tianity." 

"Dad  will  be  as  sweet  as  anything — that's  what 
makes  it  so  horrible ! " 

George  Laird  redoubled  his  squeeze.  "Quite 
right!  The  old-fashioned  father  could  let  himself 
go.  But  need  he  know?  We  can  get  her  away 
from  London,  and  later  on,  we  must  manage  some- 
how. If  he  does  hear,  we  must  make  him  feel  that 
NoUie  was  'doing  her  bit.'" 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  151 

Gratian  withdrew  her  hand.  "Don't!"  she  said 
in  a  muffled  voice. 

George  Laird  turned  and  looked  at  her.  He  was 
greatly  upset  himself,  realising  perhaps  more  deeply 
than  his  young  wife  the  violence  of  this  disaster; 
he  was  quite  capable,  too,  of  feeling  how  deeply  she 
was  stirred  and  hurt;  but,  a  born  pragmatist,  con- 
fronting Ufe  always  in  the  experimental  spirit,  he 
was  impatient  of  the :  "How  awful ! "  attitude.  And 
this  streak  of  her  father's  ascetic  traditionahsm  in 
Gratian  always  roused  in  him  a  wish  to  break  it 
up.  If  she  had  not  been  his  wife  he  would  have 
admitted  at  once  that  he  might  just  as  well  try  and 
alter  the  bone-formation  of  her  head,  as  break  down 
such  a  fundamental  trait  of  character,  but,  being 
his  wife,  he  naturally  considered  alteration  as  pos- 
sible as  putting  a  new  staircase  in  a  house,  or  throw- 
ing two  rooms  into  one.  And,  taking  her  in  his 
arms,  he  said:  "I  know;  but  it'U  all  come  right,  if 
we  put  a  good  face  on  it.     Shall  I  talk  to  NoUie?" 

Gratian  assented,  from  the  desire  to  be  able  to 
say  to  her  father:  "George  is  seeing  her!"  and  so 
stay  the  need  for  a  discussion.  But  the  whole  thing 
seemed  to  her  more  and  more  a  calamity  which 
nothing  could  lessen  or  smooth  away. 

George  Laird  had  plenty  of  cool  courage,  invalua- 
ble in  men  who  have  to  inflict  as  well  as  to  alleviate 
pain,  but  he  did  not  like  his  mission  "a  Uttle  bit" 
as  he  would  have  said;  and  he  proposed  a  walk  be- 
cause he  dreaded  a  scene.  Noel  accepted  for  the 
same  reason.     She  liked  George,  and  with  the  dis- 


152  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


j 


interested  detachment  of  a  sister-in-law,  and  the 
shrewdness  of  youth,  knew  him  perhaps  better  than 
did  his  wife.  She  was  sure,  at  all  events,  of  being 
neither  condemned  nor  sympathised  with. 

They  might  have  gone,  of  course,  in  any  direc- 
tion, but  chose  to  make  for  the  City.  Such  deep 
decisions  are  subconscious.  They  sought,  no  doubt, 
a  dry,  unemotional  region;  or  perhaps  one  where 
George,  who  was  in  uniform,  might  rest  liis  arm 
from  the  automatic-toy  game  which  the  mihtary 
play.  They  had  reached  Cheapside  before  he  was 
conscious  to  the  full  of  the  bizarre  nature  of  this 
walk  with  his  pretty  young  sister-in-law  among  all 
the  bustling,  black-coated  mob  of  money-makers. 
'I  wish  the  devil  we  hadn't  come  out !'  he  thought; 
*it  would  have  been  easier  indoors,  after  aU.' 

He  cleared  his  throat,  however,  and  squeezing 
her  arm  gently,  began:  "Gratian's  told  me,  Nollie. 
The  great  thing  is  to  keep  your  spirit  up,  and  not 
worry." 

"I  suppose  you  couldn't  cure  me." 

The  words,  in  that  delicate  spuming  voice,  ab- 
solutely staggered  George;  but  he  said  quickly: 

"Out  of  the  question,  Nollie;  impossible!  What 
are  you  thinking  of?" 

"Daddy." 

The  words:  "D — ^n  Daddy !",  rose "■  to  his  teeth; 
he  bit  them  off,  and  said:  "Bless  him!  We  shall 
have  to  see  to  all  that.  Do  you  really  want  to  keep 
it  from  him?  It  must  be  one  way  or  the  other; 
no  use  concealing  it,  if  it's  to  come  out  later." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  153 

"No." 

He  stole  a  look  at  her.  She  was  gazing  straight 
before  her.  How  damnably  young  she  was,  how 
pretty !    A  lump  came  up  in  his  throat. 

"I  shouldn't  do  anything  yet,"  he  said;    "too 
early.    Later  on,  if  you'd  Hke  me  to  tell  him.     But , 
that's  entirely  up  to  you,  my  dear;   he  need  never 
know." 

''No." 

He  could  not  follow  her  thought.    Then  she  said: 

"Gratian  condemns  Cyril.  Don't  let  her.  I 
won't  have  him  badly  thought  of.  It  was  my 
doing.     I  wanted  to  make  sure  of  him." 

George  answered  stoutly: 

"Grade's  upset,  of  course,  but  she'll  soon  be  all 
right.  You  mustn't  let  it  come  between  you.  The 
thing  you've  got  to  keep  steadily  before  you  is  that 
life's  a  huge  wide  adaptable  thing.  Look  at  all 
these  people!  There's  hardly  one  of  them  who 
hasn't  got  now,  or  hasn't  had,  some  personal  diffi- 
culty or  trouble  before  them  as  big  as  yours  almost; 
bigger  perhaps.  And  here  they  are  as  lively  as 
fleas.  That's  what  makes  the  fascination  of  life — 
the  jolly  irony  of  it  all.  It  would  do  you  good  to 
have  a  turn  in  France,  and  see  yourself  in  proportion 
to  the  whole."  He  felt  her  fingers  suddenly  slip 
under  his  arm,  and  went  on  with  greater  confidence: 

"Lifers  going  to  be  the  important  thing  in  the 
future,  Nolhe;  not  comfort  and  cloistered  virtue 
and  security;  but  living,  and  pressure  to  the  square 
inch.    Do  you  twig?    All  the  old   hard-and-fast 


154  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

traditions  and  drags  on  life  are  in  the  melting-pot. 
Death's  boiling  their  bones,  and  they'll  make  excel- 
lent stock  for  the  new  soup.  When  you  prune  and 
dock  things,  the  sap  flows  quicker.  Regrets  and 
repinings  and  repressions  are  going  out  of  fashion; 
we  shall  have  no  time  or  use  for  them  in  the  future. 
You're  going  to  make  life — ^well,  that's  something 
to  be  thankful  for,  anyway.  You've  kept  Cyril 
Morland  alive.  And — ^well,  you  know,  we've  all 
been  born;  some  of  us  properly,  and  some  improp- 
erly, and  there  isn't  a  ha'porth  of  difference  in  the 
value  of  the  article,  or  the  trouble  of  bringing  it 
into  the  world.  The  cheerier  you  are  the  better 
your  child  will  be,  and  that's  all  you've  got  to  think 
about.  You  needn't  begin  to  trouble  at  all  for 
another  couple  of  months,  at  least;  after  that,  just 
let  us  know  where  you'd  Hke  to  go,  and  I'll  arrange 
it  somehow." 

She  looked  round  at  him,  and  under  that  young, 
clear,  brooding  gaze  he  had  the  sudden  uncom- 
fortable feeling  of  having  spoken  like  a  charlatan. 
Had  he  really  touched  the  heart  of  the  matter? 
What  good  were  his  generahties  to  this  young,  fas- 
tidiously nurtured  girl,  brought  up  to  tell  the  truth, 
by  a  father  so  old-fashioned  and  devoted,  whom 
she  loved  ?  It  was  George's  nature,  too,  to  despise 
words;  and  the  conditions  of  his  life  these  last  two 
years  had  given  him  a  sort  of  horror  of  those  who 
act  by  talking.  He  felt  inclined  to  say:  "Don't 
pay  the  slightest  attention  to  me;  it's  all  humbug; 
what  will  be  will  be,  and  there's  an  end  of  it." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  155 

Then  she  said  quietly: 

''ShaU  I  teU  Daddy  or  not?" 

He  wanted  to  say:  "No,"  but  somehow  couldn't. 
After  aU,  the  straightforward  course  was  probably 
the  best.  For  this  would  have  to  be  a  lifelong  con- 
cealment. It  was  impossible  to  conceal  a  thing 
for  ever;  sooner  or  later  he  would  find  out.  But 
the  doctor  rose  up  in  him,  and  he  said: 

"Don't  go  to  meet  trouble,  NolHe;  it'll  be  time 
enough  in  two  months.     Then  tell  him,  or  let  me." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No;  I  wiU,  if  it  is  to  be 
done." 

He  put  his  hand  on  hers,  mthin  his  arm,  and 
gave  it  a  squeeze. 

"What  shaU  I  do  till  then?"  she  asked. 

"Take  a  week's  complete  rest,  and  then  go  on 
where  you  are." 

Noel  was  silent  a  minute,  then  said:  "Yes;  I 
wiU." 

They  spoke  no  more  on  the  subject,  and  George 
exerted  himself  to  talk  about  hospital  experiences, 
and  that  phenomenon,  the  British  soldier.  But 
just  before  they  reached  home  he  said: 

"Look  here,  NoUie!  If  you're  not  ashamed  of 
yourself,  no  one  will  be  ashamed  of  you.  If  you 
put  ashes  on  your  own  head,  your  fellow-beings  will 
assist  you;  for  of  such  is  their  charity." 

And,  receiving  another  of  those  clear,  brooding 
looks,  he  left  her  with  the  thought:  'A  lonely  child !' 


VII 

Noel  went  back  to  her  hospital  after  a  week's 
rest.  George  had  done  more  for  her  than  he  sus- 
pected, for  his  saying:  '^ Life's  a  huge  wide  adaptable 
thing!"  had  stuck  in  her  mind.  Did  it  matter 
what  happened  to  her?  And  she  used  to  look  into 
the  faces  of  the  people  she  met,  and  wonder  what 
was  absorbing  them.  What  secret  griefs  and  joys 
were  they  carrying  about  mth  them?  The  loneli- 
ness of  her  own  hfe  now  forced  her  to  this  specula- 
tion concerning  others,  for  she  was  extraordinarily 
lonely;  Gratian  and  George  were  back  at  work,  her 
father  must  be  kept  at  bay;  with  Leila  she  felt  ill 
at  ease,  for  the  confession  had  hurt  her  pride;  and 
family  friends  and  acquaintances  of  all  sorts  she 
shunned  like  the  plague.  The  only  person  she  did 
not  succeed  in  avoiding  was  Jimmy  Fort,  who  came 
in  one  evening  after  dinner,  bringing  her  a  large 
bunch  of  hothouse  violets.  But  then,  he  did  not 
seem  to  matter — too  new  an  acquaintance,  too  de- 
tached. Something  he  said  made  her  aware  that 
he  had  heard  of  her  loss,  and  that  the  violets  were  a 
token  of  sympathy.  He  seemed  awfully  kind  that 
evening,  telling  her  *' tales  of  Araby,"  and  saying 
nothing  which  would  shock  her  father.  It  was 
wonderful  to  be  a  man  and  roll  about  the  world  as 
he  had,  and  see  all  Ufe,  and  queer  places,  and  peo- 

156 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  157 

pie  —  Chinamen,  and  Gauchos,  and  Boers,  and 
Mexicans.  It  gave  her  a  kind  of  thirst.  And  she 
liked  to  watch  his  brown,  humorous  face,  which 
seemed  made  of  dried  leather.  It  gave  her  the  feel- 
ing that  hfe  and  experience  was  all  that  mattered, 
doing  and  seeing  things;  it  made  her  own  trouble 
seem  smaller,  less  important.  She  squeezed  his 
hand  when  she  said  good  night.  "Thank  you  for 
my  violets  and  for  coming;  it  was  awfully  kind  of 
you!  I  wish  I  could  have  adventures!"  And  he 
answered:  "You  will,  my  dear  fairy  princess!" 
He  said  it  queerly  and  very  kindly. 

Fairy  Princess !  What  a  funny  thing  to  call  her ! 
If  he  had  only  known ! 

There  were  not  many  adventures  to  be  had  in 
those  regions  where  she  washed  up.  Not  much 
*wide  and  adaptable  Hfe'  to  take  her  thoughts  off 
herself.  But  on  her  journeys  to  and  from  the  hos- 
pital she  had  more  than  one  odd  Httle  experience. 
One  morning  she  noticed  a  poorly  dressed  woman 
with  a  red  and  swollen  face,  flapping  along  Regent 
Street  like  a  wounded  bird,  and  biting  strangely  at 
her  hand.  Hearing  her  groan,  Noel  asked  her  what 
the  matter  was.  The  woman  held  out  the  hand. 
"Oh!"  she  moaned,  "I  was  scrubbin'  the  floor  and 
I  got  this  great  needle  stuck  through  my  'and,  and 
it's  broke  off,  and  I  can't  get  it  out.  Oh!  Oh!" 
She  bit  at  the  needle-end,  not  quite  visible,  but 
almost  within  reach  of  teeth,  and  suddenly  went 
very  white.  In  dismay,  Noel  put  an  arm  round  her, 
and  turned  her  into  a  fine  chemist's  shop.     Several 


158  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

ladies  were  in  there,  buying  perfumes,  and  they 
looked  with  acerbity  at  this  disordered  dirty  female 
entering  among  them.  Noel  went  up  to  a  man 
behind  the  counter,  "Please  give  me  something 
quick,  for  this  poor  woman,  I  think  she's  going 
to  faint.  She's  run  a  needle  through  her  hand,  and 
can't  get  it  out."  The  man  gave  her  'something 
quick,'  and  Noel  pushed  past  two  of  the  dames 
back  to  where  the  woman  was  sitting.  She  was 
stiU  obstinately  biting  at  her  hand,  and  suddenly 
her  chin  flew  up,  and  there,  between  her  teeth,  was 
the  needle.  She  took  it  from  them  with  her  other 
hand,  stuck  it  proudly  in  the  front  of  her  dress, 
and  out  tumbled  the  words:  "Oh!  there — I've  got 
it!" 

When  she  had  swallowed  the  draught,  she  looked 
round  her,  bewildered,  and  said: 

"Thank  you  kindly,  miss!"  and  shuffled  out. 
Noel  paid  for  the  draught,  and  followed;  and,  be- 
hind her,  the  shining  shop  seemed  to  exhale  a  per- 
fumed breath  of  rehef. 

"You  can't  go  back  to  work,"  she  said  to  the 
woman.     "Where  do  you  live?" 

"'Omsey,  miss." 

"You  must  take  a  'bus  and  go  straight  home,  and 
put  your  hand  at  once  into  weak  Condy's  fluid  and 
water.     It's  swelling.     Here's  five  shillings." 

"Yes,  miss;  thank  you,  miss,  I'm  sure.  It's 
very  kind  of  you.     It  does  ache  cruel." 

"If  it's  not  better  this  afternoon,  you  must  go 
to  a  doctor.     Promise!" 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  159 

"Oh,  dear,  yes.  'Ere's  my  Tdus.  Thank  you 
kindly,  miss." 

Noel  saw  her  borne  awav,  still  sucking  at  her 
dirty  swollen  hand.  She  walked  on  in  a  glow  of 
love  for  the  poor  woman,  and  hate  for  the  ladies  in 
the  chemist's  shop,  and  forgot  her  o\mi  trouble  till 
she  had  almost  reached  the  hospital. 

Another  November  day,  a  Saturday,  lea\-ing 
early,  she  walked  to  H}'de  Park.  The  plane-trees 
were  just  at  the  height  of  their  spotted  beauty. 
Few — ver}'  few — yellow  leaves  still  hung  ;  and  the 
slender  pretty  trees  seemed  rejoicing  in  their  free- 
dom from  summer  foliage.  All  their  dehcate  boughs 
and  twigs  were  shaking  and  dancing  in  the  wind; 
and  their  rain-washed  leopard-like  bodies  had  a 
hthe  un-English  gaiety.  Noel  passed  do^n  their 
Hne,  and  seated  herself  on  a  bench.  Close  by,  an 
artist  was  painting.  His  easel  was  only  some  three 
yards  away  from  her,  and  she  could  see  the  picture; 
a  \'ista  of  the  Park  Lane  houses  through  the  gay 
plane-tree  screen.  He  was  a  tall  man,  about  forty, 
e\ddently  foreign,  \\ith  a  thin,  long,  oval  beardless 
face,  high  brow,  large  grey  eyes  which  looked  as  if 
he  suffered  from  headaches  and  hved  much  within 
himself.  He  cast  many  glances  at  her,  and,  pur- 
suant of  her  new  interest  iu  'hfe'  she  watched  him 
discreetly;  a  httle  startled  however,  when,  taking 
off  his  broad-brimmed  squash  hat,  he  said  in  a 
broken  accent: 

"Forgive  me  the  liberty  I  take,  mademoiselle, 
but  would  you  so  ver}-  kindly  allow  me  to  make  a 


i6o"  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

sketch  of  you  sitting  there?  I  work  very  quick. 
I  beg  you  will  let  me.  I  am  Belgian,  and  have  no 
manners,  you  see."    And  he  smiled. 

"If  you  like,"  said  Noel. 

"I  thank  you  very  much." 

He  shifted  his  easel,  and  began  to  draw.  She  felt 
flattered,  and  a  httle  fluttered.  He  was  so  pale, 
and  had  a  curious,  half-fed  look,  which  moved  her. 

"Have  you  been  long  in  England?"  she  said 
presently. 

"Ever  since  the  first  months  of  the  war." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"I  was  very  homesick  at  first.  But  I  live  in  my 
pictures;  there  are  wonderful  things  in  London." 

"Why  did  you  want  to  sketch  me?" 

The  painter  snuled  again.  "Mademoiselle,  youth 
is  so  mysterious.  Those  young  trees  I  have  been 
painting  mean  so  much  more  than  the  old  big  trees. 
Your  eyes  are  seeing  things  that  have  not  yet  hap- 
pened. There  is  Fate  in  them,  and  a  look  of  de- 
fending us  others  from  seeing  it.  We  have  not 
such  faces  in  my  country;  we  are  simpler;  we  do 
not  defend  our  expressions.  The  EngHsh  are  very 
mysterious.  We  are  like  children  to  them.  Yet  in 
some  ways  you  are  like  children  to  us.  You  are 
not  people  of  the  world  at  all.  You  Enghsh  have 
been  good  to  us,  but  you  do  not  like  us." 

"And  I  suppose  you  do  not  like  us,  either?" 

He  smiled  again,  and  she  noticed  how  white  his 
teeth  were. 

"Well,  not  very  much.    The  Enghsh  do  things 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  i6i 

from  duty,  but  their  hearts  they  keep  to  themselves. 
And  their  Art — well,  that  is  really  amusing ! " 

"I  don't  know  much  about  Art,"  Noel  murmured. 

"It  is  the  world  to  me,"  said  the  painter,  and  was 
silent,  drawing  with  increased  pace  and  passion. 

"It  is  so  difficult  to  get  subjects,"  he  remarked 
abruptly.  "I  cannot  afford  to  pay  models,  and  they 
are  not  fond  of  me  painting  out  of  doors.  If  I  had 
always  a  subject  like  you !  You — you  have  a  grief, 
have  you  not?" 

At  that  startling  little  question,  Noel  looked  up, 
frowning. 

"Everybody  has,  now." 

The  painter  grasped  his  chin;  his  eyes  had  sud- 
denly become  tragical. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "everybody.  Tragedy  is  daily 
bread.  I  have  lost  my  family;  they  are  in  Bel- 
gium.   How  they  live  I  do  not  know." 

"I'm  sorry;  very  sorry,  too,  if  we  aren't  nice  to 
you,  here.     We  ought  to  be." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "What  would  you 
have?  We  are  different.  That  is  unpardonable. 
An  artist  is  always  lonely,  too;  he  has  a  skin  fewer 
than  other  people,  and  he  sees  things  that  they  do 
not.  People  do  not  like  you  to  be  different.  If 
ever  in  your  life  you  act  differently  from  others, 
you  will  find  it  so,  mademoiselle." 

Noel  felt  herself  flushing.  Was  he  reading  her 
secret?  His  eyes  had  such  a  peculiar,  second- 
sighted  look. 

"Have  you  nearly  finished?"  she  asked. 


i62  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"No,  mademoiselle;  I  could  go  on  for  hours; 
but  I  do  not  wish  to  keep  you.  It  is  cold  for  you, 
sitting  there." 

Noel  got  up.     "May  I  look?" 

"Certainly." 

She  did  not  quite  recognise  herself — ^who  does? — 
but  she  saw  a  face  which  affected  her  oddly,  of  a 
girl  looking  at  something  which  was,  and  yet  was 
not,  in  front  of  her. 

"My  name  is  Lavendie,"  the  painter  said;  "my 
wife  and  I  live  here,"  and  he  gave  her  a  card. 

Noel  could  not  help  answering:  "My  name  is 
Noel  Pierson;  I  live  with  my  father;  here's  the 
address" — she  found  her  case,  and  fished  out  a 
card.  "My  father  is  a  clergyman;  would  you  care 
to  come  and  see  him?    He  loves  music  and  paint- 


ing." 


"It  would  be  a  great  pleasure;  and  perhaps  I 
might  be  allowed  to  paint  you.  Alas !  I  have  no 
studio." 

Noel  drew  back.  "I'm  afraid  that  I  work  in  a 
hospital  all  day,  and  —  and  I  don't  want  to  be 
painted,  thank  you.  But,  Daddy  would  like  to 
meet  you,  I'm  sure." 

The  painter  bowed  again;  she  saw  that  he  was 
hurt. 

"Of  course  I  can  see  that  you're  a  very  fine 
painter,"  she  said' quickly;  "only — only — I  don't 
want  to,  you  see.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  paint 
Daddy;  he's  got  a  most  interesting  face." 

The. painter  smiled.     "He  is  your  father,  made- 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  163 


aoiselle.    May  I  ask  you  one  question?    Why  do 

ou  not  want  to  be  painted?" 
j   "Because — because    I    don't,    I'm    afraid."    She 
'leld  out  her  hand.     The  painter  bowed  over  it. 
^Au  revoir,  mademoiselle.'^ 

"Thank  you,"  said  Noel;  "it  was  awfully  inter- 
;sting."  And  she  walked  away.  The  sky  had  be- 
;ome  full  of  clouds  round  the  westerly  sun;  and  the 
oreign  crinkled  tracery  of  the  plane-tree  branches 
igainst  that  French-grey,  golden-edged  mass,  was 
/ery  lovely.  Beauty,  and  the  troubles  of  others, 
>oothed  her.  She  felt  sorry  for  the  painter,  but  his 
lyes  saw  too  much!  And  his  words:  "If  ever  you 
ict  differently  from  others,"  made  her  feel  him  un- 
:anny.  Was  it  true  that  people  always  disliked 
md  condemned  those  who  acted  differently?  If 
ler  old  schoolfellows  now  knew  what  was  before 
ler,  how  would  they  treat  her?  In  her  father's 
jtudy  hung  a  little  reproduction  of  a  tiny  picture 
n  the  Louvre,  a  *  Rape  of  Europa,'  by  an  unknown 
painter — a  humorous  deHcate  thing,  of  an  enrap- 
:ured,  fair-haired  girl  mounted  on  a  prancing  white 
Dull,  crossing  a  shallow  stream,  while  on  the  bank 
ill  her  white  girl-companions  were  gathered,  tuni- 
ng half-sour,  half-envious  faces  away  from  that 
Loo-fearful  spectacle,  while  one  of  them  tried  with 
timid  desperation  to  mount  astride  of  a  sitting  cow, 
md  follow.  The  face  of  the  girl  on  the  bull  had 
Dnce  been  compared  by  someone  with  her  own. 
She  thought  of  this  picture  now,  and  saw  her  school- 
fellows— a  throng  of  shocked  and  wondering  girls. 


i64  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Suppose  one  of  them  had  been  in  her  position 
*  Should  I  have  been  turning  my  face  away,  like  th<  i 
rest?  I  wouldn't — ^no,  I  wouldn't,'  she  thought 
*I  should  have  understood!'  But  she  knew  then 
was  a  kind  of  false  emphasis  in  her  thought.  In 
stinctively  she  felt  the  painter  right.  One  whc 
acted  differently  from  others,  was  lost. 

She  told  her  father  of  the  encounter,  adding: 

"I  expect  he'll  come.  Daddy." 

Pierson  answered  dreamily:  "Poor  fellow,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  see  him  if  he  does." 

"And  you'll  sit  to  him,  won't  you?" 

"My  dear— I?" 

"He's  lonely,  you  know,  and  people  aren't  nice 
to  him.  Isn't  it  hateful  that  people  should  hurt 
others,  because  they're  foreign  or  different?" 

She  saw  his  eyes  open  with  mild  surprise,  and 
went  on:  "I  know  you  think  people  are  charitable, 
Daddy,  but  they  aren't,  of  course." 

"  That^s  not  exactly  charitable,  Nollie." 

"You  know  they're  not.  I  think  sin  often  just 
means  doing  things  differently.  It's  not  real  sin 
when  it  only  hurts  yourself;  but  that  doesn't  pre- 
vent people  condemning  you,  does  it?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Nollie.'* 

Noel  bit  her  lips,  and  murmured:  "Are  you  sure 
we're  really  Christians,  Daddy?" 

The  question  was  so  startling,  from  his  own  daugh- 
ter, that  Pierson  took  refuge  in  an  attempt  at  wit. 
"I  should  like  notice  of  that  question,  NoUie,  as 
they  say  in  Parliament." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  165 


,>i.  j> 


"That  means  you  don't.' 

Pierson  flushed.  "  We're  fallible  enough;  but, 
don't  get  such  ideas  into  your  head,  my  child. 
There's  a  lot  of  rebelUous  talk  and  writing  in  these 
days." 

Noel  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head.  "I 
think,"  she  said,  looking  straight  before  her,  and 
speaking  to  the  air,  "that  Christianity  is  what  you 
do,  not  what  you  think  or  say.  And  I  don't  believe 
people  can  be  Christians  when  they  act  like  others 
— I  mean,  when  they  join  together  to  judge  and 
hurt  people." 

Pierson  rose  and  paced  the  room.  "You  have 
not  seen  enough  of  hfe  to  talk  like  that,"  he  said. 
But  Noel  went  on: 

''One  of  the  men  in  her  hospital  told  Gratian 
about  the  treatment  of  conscientious  objectors — it 
was  horrible.  Why  do  they  treat  them  like  that, 
just  because  they  disagree?  Captain  Fort  says  it's 
fear  which  makes  people  bulHes.  But  how  can  it 
be  fear  when  they're  hundreds  to  one?  He  says 
man  has  domesticated  his  animals  but  has  never 
succeeded  in  domesticating  himself.  Man  must  be 
a  wild  beast,  you  know,  or  the  world  couldn't  be  so 
awfully  brutal.  I  don't  see  much  difference  be- 
tween being  brutal  for  good  reasons,  and  being 
brutal  for  bad  ones." 

Pierson  looked  down  at  her  with  a  troubled  smile. 
There  was  something  fantastic  to  him  in  this  sudden 
philosophising  by  one  whom  he  had  watched  grow 
up  from  a  tiny  thing.     Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes 


i66  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

and  sucklings — sometimes !  But  then  the  young 
generation  was  always  something  of  a  sealed  book 
to  him;  his  sensitive  shyness,  and  still  more,  his 
cloth,  placed  a  sort  of  invisible  barrier  between  him 
and  the  hearts  of  others,  especially  the  young. 
There  were  so  many  things  of  which  he  was  com- 
pelled to  disapprove,  or  which  at  least  he  couldn't 
discuss.  And  they  knew  it  too  well.  Until  these 
last  few  months  he  had  never  realised  that  his  own 
daughters  had  remained  as  undiscovered  by  him  as 
the  interior  of  Brazil.  And  now  that  he  perceived 
this,  he  was  bewildered,  yet  could  not  imagine  how 
to  get  on  terms  with  them. 

And  he  stood  looking  at  Noel,  intensely  puzzled, 
suspecting  nothing  of  the  hard  fact  which  was  alter- 
ing her — vaguely  jealous,  anxious,  pained.  And 
when  she  had  gone  up  to  bed,  he  roamed  up  and 
down  the  room  a  long  time,  thinking.  He  longed 
for  a  friend  to  confide  in,  and  consult;  but  he  knew 
no  one.  He  shrank  from  them  all,  as  too  down- 
right, bluff,  and  active ;  too  worldly  and  unaesthetic ; 
or  too  stiff  and  narrow.  Amongst  the  younger  men 
in  his  profession  he  was  often  aware  of  faces  which 
attracted  him,  but  one  could  not  confide  deep  per- 
sonal questions  to  men  half  one's  age.  But  of  his 
own  generation,  or  his  elders,  he  knew  not  one  to 
whom  he  could  have  gone. 


VIII 


Leila  was  deep  in  her  new  draught  of  life.  When 
she  fell  in  love  it  had  always  been  over  head  and 
ears,  and  so  far  her  passion  had  always  burnt  it- 
self out  before  that  of  her  partner.  This  had  been, 
of  course,  a  great  advantage  to  her.  Not  that 
Leila  had  ever  expected  her  passions  to  bum  them- 
selves out.  When  she  fell  in  love  she  had  always 
thought  it  was  for  always.  This  time  she  was  sure 
it  was,  surer  than  she  had  ever  been.  Jimmy  Fort 
seemed  to  her  the  man  she  had  been  looking  for  all 
her  life.  He  was  not  so  good-looking  as  either 
Fane  or  Lynch,  but  beside  him  these  others  seemed 
to  her  now  almost  ridiculous.  Indeed  they  did  not 
figure  at  all,  they  shrank,  they  withered,  they  were 
husks,  together  with  the  others  for  whom  she  had 
known  passing  weaknesses.  There  was  only  one 
man  in  the  world  for  her  now,  and  would  be  for 
evermore.  She  did  not  ideaHse  him  either,  it  was 
more  serious  than  that;  she  was  thrilled  by  his 
voice,  and  his  touch,  she  dreamed  of  him,  longed  for 
him  when  he  was  not  with  her.  She  worried,  too, 
for  she  was  perfectly  aware  that  he  was  not  half 
as  fond  of  her  as  she  was  of  him.  Such  a  new  experi- 
ence puzzled  her,  kept  her  instincts  painfully  on  the 
alert.     It  was  perhaps  just  this  uncertainty  about 

167 


i68  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

his  afltection  which  made  him  seem  more  precious 
than  any  of  the  others.  But  there  was  ever  the 
other  reason,  too — consciousness  that  Time  was  after 
her,  and  this  her  last  grand  passion.  She  watched 
him  as  a  mother-cat  watches  her  kitten,  without 
seeming  to,  of  course,  for  she  had  much  experience. 
She  had  begun  to  have  a  curious  secret  jealousy  of 
Noel!  though  why — she  could  not  have  said.  It 
was  perhaps  merely  incidental  to  her  age,  or  sprang 
from  that  vague  resemblance  between  her  and  one 
who  outrivalled  even  what  she  had  been  as  a  girl; 
or  from  the  occasional  allusions  Fort  made  to  what 
he  called  'that  little  fairy  princess.'  Something 
intangible,  instinctive,  gave  her  that  jealousy.  Until 
the  death  of  her  young  cousin's  lover  she  had  felt 
safe,  for  she  knew  that  Jimmy  Fort  would  not 
hanker  after  another  man's  property;  had  he  not 
proved  that  in  old  days,  with  herself,  by  running 
away  from  her?  And  she  had  often  regretted  hav- 
ing told  him  of  Cyril  Morland's  death.  One  day 
fshe  determined  to  repair  that  error.  It  was  at  the 
Zoo,  where  they  often  went  on  Sunday  afternoons. 
They  were  standing  before  a  creature  called  the 
meercat,  which  reminded  them  both  of  old  days  on 
the  veldt.  Without  turning  her  head  she  said,  as 
if  to  the  little  animal:  "Do  you  know  that  your 
fairy  princess,  as  you  call  her,  is  going  to  have  what 
is  known  as  a  war-baby?" 

The  sound  of  his  "  What !"  gave  her  quite  a  stab. 
It  was  so  utterly  horrified. 

She  said  stubbornly:   "She  came  and  told  me  all 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  169 

about  it.  The  boy  is  dead,  as  you  know.  Yes,  ter- 
rible, isn't  it?"  And  she  looked  at  him.  His  face 
was  almost  comic,  so  wrinkled  up  with  incredulity. 

"That  lovely  child!    But  it's  impossible!" 

"The  impossible  is  sometimes  true,  Jimmy." 

"I  refuse  to  believe  it." 
I  tell  you  it  is  so,"  she  said  angrily. 
What  a  ghastly  shame!" 
It  was  her  own  doing;    she  said  so,  herself." 
And  her  father — the  padre !    My  God !" 

Leila  was  suddenly  smitten  with  a  horrible  doubt. 
She  had  thought  it  would  disgust  him,  cure  him  of 
any  little  tendency  to  romanticise  that  child;  and 
now  she  perceived  that  it  was  rousing  in  him,  in- 
stead, a  dangerous  compassion.  She  could  have 
bitten  her  tongue  out  for  having  spoken.  When 
he  got  on  the  high  horse  of  some  championship, 
he  was  not  to  be  trusted,  she  had  found  that  out; 
was  even  finding  it  out  bitterly  in  her  own  relations 
with  him,  constantly  aware  that  half  her  hold  on 
him,  at  least,  lay  in  his  sense  of  chivalry,  aware 
that  he  knew  her  lurking  dread  of  being  flung  on 
the  beach,  by  age.  Only  ten  minutes  ago  he  had 
uttered  a  tirade  before  the  cage  of  a  monkey  which 
seemed  unhappy.  And  now  she  had  roused  that 
dangerous  side  of  him  in  favour  of  Noel.  What  an 
idiot  she  had  been ! 

"Don't  look  like  that,  Jimmy.  I'm  sorry  I  told 
you ! " 

His  hand  did  not  answer  her  pressure  in  the  least, 
but  he  muttered: 


lyo  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"Well,  I  do  think  that's  the  limit.  What's  to 
be  done  for  her?"  | 

Leila  answered  softly:  "Nothing,  I'm  afraid. 
Do  you  love  me?"    And  she  pressed  his  hand  hard. 

"Of  course." 

But  Leila  thought:  'If  I  were  that  meercat  he'd 
have  taken  more  notice  of  my  paw!'  Her  heart 
began  suddenly  to  ache,  and  she  walked  on  to  the 
next  cage  with  head  up,  and  her  mouth  hard  set. 

Jimmy  Fort  walked  away  from  Camelot  Man- 
sions that  evening  in  extreme  discomfort  of  mind. 
Leila  had  been  so  queer  that  he  had  taken  leave 
immediately  after  supper.  She  had  refused  to  talk 
about  Noel;  had  even  seemed  angry  when  he  had 
tried  to.  How  extraordinary  some  women  were! 
Did  they  think  that  a  man  could  hear  of  a  thing 
like  that  about  such  a  damty  young  creature  as 
that  girl  without  being  upset!  Why,  it  was  the 
most  perfectly  damnable  news  he  had  ever  heard ! 
What  on  earth  would  she  do — ^poor  little  fairy  prin- 
cess !  Down  had  come  her  house  of  cards  with  a 
vengeance!  The  whole  of  her  Hfe — the  whole  of 
her  hfe !  With  her  bringing-up  and  her  father  and 
all — it  seemed  inconceivable  that  she  could  ever 
survive  it.  And  Leila  had  been  almost  callous  about 
the  monstrous  business.  Women  were  hard  to  each 
other!  Bad  enough,  these  things,  when  it  was  a 
simple  working  girl,  but  this  dainty,  sheltered,  beau- 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  171 

tiful  child !  No,  it  was  altogether  too  strong — too 
painful !  And  following  an  impulse  which  he  could 
not  resist,  he  made  his  way  to  the  old  Square.  But 
ha\dng  reached  the  house,  he  nearly  went  away 
again.  WTiile  he  stood  hesitating  with  his  hand 
on  the  bell,  a  girl  and  a  soldier  passed,  appearing 
as  if  by  magic  out  of  the  moonht  November  mist, 
blurred  and  soHd  shapes  embraced,  then  vanished 
into  it  again,  leaving  the  sound  of  footsteps.  Fort 
jerked  the  bell.  He  was  shown  into  what  seemed, 
to  one  coming  out  of  that  mist,  to  be  a  briUiant, 
crowded  room,  though  in  truth  there  were  but  two 
lamps  and  five  people  in  it.  They  were  sitting  round 
the  fire,  talking,  and  paused  when  he  came  in.  When 
he  had  shaken  hands  with  Pierson  and  been  intro- 
duced to  'my  daughter  Gratian'  and  a  man  in  khaki 
— 'my  son-in-law  George  Laird,'  to  a  tall,  thin-faced, 
foreign-looking  man  in  a  black  stock  and  seemingly 
no  collar,  he  went  up  to  Noel,  who  had  risen  from 
a  chair  before  the  fire.  'No!'  he  thought,  'I've 
dreamed  it,  or  Leila  has  lied  ! '  She  was  so  perfectly 
the  self-possessed,  dainty  maiden  he  remembered. 
Even  the  feel  of  her  hand  was  the  same — warm  and 
confident;  and  sinking  into  a  chair,  he  said :  "Please 
go  on,  and  let  me  chip  in." 

"We  were  quarrelling  about  the  Universe,  Cap- 
tain Fort,"  said  the  man  in  khaki;  "delighted  to 
have  your  help.  I  was  just  saying  that  this  partic- 
ular world  has  no  particular  importance,  no  more 
than  a  newspaper-seller  would  accord  to  it  if  it  were 
completely   destroyed   to-morrow — '  'Orrible   catas- 


172  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

trophe,  total  destruction  of  the  world — six  o'clock 
edition — pyper!'  I  say  that  it  will  become  again 
the  nebula  out  of  which  it  was  formed,  and  by  fric- 
tion with  other  nebula  re-form  into  a  fresh  shape 
and  so  on  ad  infinitum — but  I  can't  explain  why. 
My  wife  wonders  if  it  exists  at  all  except  in  the  human 
mind — but  she  can't  explain  what  the  human  mind 
is.  My  father-in-law  thinks  that  it  is  God's  hobby 
— ^but  he  can't  explain  who  or  what  God  is.  Nollie 
is  silent.  And  Monsieur  Lavendie  hasn't  yet  told 
us  what  he  thinks.  What  do  you  think,  monsieur?^'' 
The  thin-faced,  big-eyed  man  put  up  his  hand  to 
his  high,  veined  brow  as  if  he  had  a  headache,  red- 
dened, and  began  to  speak  in  French,  which  Fort 
followed  with  difficulty. 

''For  me  the  Universe  is  a  limitless  artist,  mon- 
sieur,  who  from  all  time  and  to  all  time  is  ever  ex- 
pressing himself  in  differing  forms — always  trying  to 
make  a  masterpiece,  and  generally  failing.  For  me 
this  world,  and  all  the  worlds,  are — like  ourselves, 
and  the  flowers  and  trees — little  separate  works  of 
art,  more  or  less  perfect,  whose  Httle  lives  rim  their 
course,  and  are  spilled  or  powdered  back  into  this 
Creative  Artist,  whence  issue  ever  fresh  attempts 
at  art.  I  agree  with  Monsieur  Laird,  if  I  under- 
stand him  right;  but  I  agree  also  with  Madame 
Laird,  if  I  understand  her.  You  see,  I  think  mind 
and  matter  are  one,  or  perhaps  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  either  mind  or  matter,  only  growth  and  decay 
and  growth  again,  for  ever  and  ever;  but  always 
conscious  growth — an  artist  expressing  himself  in 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  173 

millions  of  ever-changing  forms;  decay  and  death 
as  we  call  them,  being  but  rest  and  sleep,  the  ebbing 
of  the  tide,  which  must  ever  come  between  two  rising 
tides,  or  the  night  which  comes  between  two  days. 
But  the  next  day  is  never  the  same  as  the  day  be- 
fore, nor  the  tide  as  the  last  tide;  so  the  little  shapes 
of  the  world  and  of  ourselves,  these  works  of  art 
by  the  Eternal  Artist,  are  never  renewed  in  the  same 
form,  are  never  tmce  alike,  but  always  fresh — fresh 
worlds,  fresh  individuals,  fresh  flowers,  fresh  every- 
thing. I  do  not  see  anything  depressing  in  that. 
To  me  it  would  be  depressing  to  think  that  I  would 
go  on  Hving  after  death,  or  Uve  again  in  a  new  body, 
myself  yet  not  myseh.  How  stale  that  would  be ! 
When  I  finish  a  picture  it  is  inconceivable  to  me  that 
this  picture  should  ever  become  another  picture,  or 
that  one  can  divide  the  expression  from  the  mind- 
stuff  it  has  expressed.  The  Great  Artist  who  is  the 
whole  of  Everything,  is  ever  in  fresh  effort  to  achieve 
new  things.  He  is  as  a  fountain  who  throws  up  new 
drops,  no  tvv^o  ever  alike,  which  fall  back  into  the 
water,  flow  into  the  pipe,  and  so  are  thrown  up  again 
in  fresh-shaped  drops.  But  I  cannot  explain  why 
there  should  be  this  Eternal  Energy,  ever  expressing 
itself  in  fresh  individual  shapes,  this  Eternal  Work- 
ing Artist,  instead  of  nothing  at  all — ^just  empty 
dark  for  always;  except  indeed  that  it  must  be  one 
thing  or  the  other,  either  all  or  nothing,  and  it  hap- 
pens to  be  this  and  not  that,  the  all  and  not  the 
nothing." 

He  stopped  speaking,  and  his  big  eyes,  which  had 


174  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

fixed  themselves  on  Fort's  face,  seemed  to  the  latter 
not  to  be  seeing  him  at  all,  but  to  rest  on  something 
beyond.  The  man  in  khaki,  who  had  risen  and  was 
standing  with  his  hand  on  his  wife's  shoulder,  said: 

''Bravo,  monsieur;  jolly  well  put  from  the  ar- 
tist's point  of  view.  The  idea  is  pretty,  anyway; 
but  is  there  any  need  for  an  idea  at  all?  Things 
are;  and  we  have  just  to  take  them."  Fort  had 
the  impression  of  something  dark  and  writhing;  the 
thin  black  form  of  his  host,  who  had  risen  and  come 
close  to  the  hre. 

"I  cannot  admit,"  he  was  saying,  ''the  identity 
of  the  Creator  with  the  created.  God  exists  outside 
ourselves.  Nor  can  I  admit  that  there  is  no  definite 
purpose  and  fulfilment.  All  is  shaped  to  His  great 
ends.  I  think  we  are  too  given  to  spiritual  pride. 
The  world  has  lost  reverence;  I  regret  it,  I  bitterly 
regret  it." 

"I  rejoice  at  it,"  said  the  man  in  khaki.  "Now, 
Captain  Fort,  your  turn  to  bat!" 

Fort,  who  had  been  looking  at  Noel,  gave  himself 
a  shake,  and  said:  "I  think  what  monsieur  calls 
expression,  I  call  fighting.  I  suspect  the  Universe 
of  being  simply  a  long  fight,  a  sum  of  conquests 
and  defeats.  Conquests  leading  to  defeats,  defeats 
to  conquests.  I  want  to  win  while  I'm  alive,  and 
because  I  want  to  win,  I  want  to  live  on  after  death. 
Death  is  a  defeat.  I  don't  want  to  admit  it.  While 
I  have  that  instinct,  I  don't  think  I  shall  really  die; 
when  I  lose  it,  I  think  I  shall."  He  was  conscious 
of  Noel's  face  turning  towards  him,  but  had  the 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  175 

feeling  that  she  wasn't  really  listening.  "I  suspect 
I  that  what  we  call  spirit  is  just  the  fighting  instinct; 
that  what  we  call  matter  is  the  mood  of  lying  down. 
Whether,  as  Mr.  Pierson  says,  God  is  outside  us, 
or,  as  monsieur  thinks,  we  are  all  part  of  God,  I 
don't  know,  I'm  sure." 

"Ah!  There  we  are!"  said  the  man  in  khaki. 
"We  all  speak  after  our  temperaments,  and  none 
of  us  know.  The  religions  of  the  world  are  just  the 
poetic  expressions  of  certain  strongly  marked  tem- 
peraments. Monsieur  was  a  poet  just  now,  and  his 
is  the  only  temperament  which  has  never  yet  been 
rammed  down  the  world's  throat  in  the  form  of 
rehgion.  Go  out  and  proclaim  your  views  from  the 
housetops,  monsieur,  and  see  what  happens." 

The  painter  shook  his  head  with  a  smile  which 
seemed  to  Fort  very  bright  on  the  surface,  and  very 
sad  underneath. 

"Non,  monsieur,"  he  said;  "the  artist  does  not 
wish  to  impose  his  temperament.  Difference  of 
temperament  is  the  very  essence  of  his  joy,  and  his 
behef  in  life.  Without  difference  there  would  be 
no  Hfe  for  him.  '  Tout  casse,  tout  lasse,'  but  change 
goes  on  for  ever.  We  artists  reverence  change,  mon- 
sieur; we  reverence  the  newness  of  each  morning, 
of  each  night,  of  each  person,  of  each  expression  of 
energy.  Nothing  is  final,  for  us;  we  are  eager  for 
all  and  always  for  more.  We  are  in  love,  you  see, 
even  with — death." 

There  was  a  silence;  then  Fort  heard  Pierson 
murmur: 


176  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"That  is  beautiful,  monsieur;  but  oh!  how 
wrong!" 

"And  what  do  you  think,  Nollie?"  said  the  man 
in  khaki  suddenly.  The  girl  had  been  sitting  very 
still  in  her  low  chair,  with  her  hands  crossed  in  her 
lap,  her  eyes  on  the  fire,  and  the  lamplight  shining 
down  on  her  fair  hair;  she  looked  up,  startled,  and 
her  eyes  met  Fort's. 

"I  don't  know;  I  wasn't  Hstening."  Something 
moved  in  him,  a  kind  of  burning  pity,  a  rage  of  pro- 
tection.   He  said  quickly: 

"These  are  times  of  action.  Philosophy  seems 
to  mean  nothing  nowadays.  The  one  thing  is  to 
hate  tyranny  and  cruelty,  and  protect  everything 
that's  weak  and  lonely.  It's  all  that's  left  to  make 
life  worth  living,  when  all  the  packs  of  all  the  world 
are  out  for  blood." 

Noel  was  listening  now,  and  he  went  on  fervently : 
"Why !  Even  we  who  started  out  to  fight  this  Prus- 
sian pack,  have  caught  the  pack  feeling — ^have  got 
it  hunting  aU  over  the  country,  on  every  sort  of 
scent.    It's  a  most  infectious  thing." 

"I  cannot  see  that  we  are  being  infected,  Cap- 
tain Fort." 

"I'm  afraid  we  are,  Mr.  Pierson.  The  great  ma- 
jority of  people  are  always  inclined  to  run  with  the 
hounds;  the  pressure's  great  just  now;  the  pack 
spirit's  in  the  air." 

Pierson  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  cannot  see  it," 
he  repeated;  "it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  all  more 
brotherly,  and  more  tolerant." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  177 

"Ah!  monsieur  le  cure^''  Fort  heard  the  painter 
say  very  gently,  *'it  is  difficult  for  a  good  man  to 
see  the  evil  round  him.  There  are  those  whom  the 
world's  march  leaves  apart,  and  reality  cannot 
touch.  They  walk  with  God,  and  the  bestiaHties 
of  us  animals  are  fantastic  to  them.  The  spirit  of 
the  pack,  as  monsieur  says,  is  in  the  air.  I  see  all 
human  nature  now,  running  with  gaping  mouths 
and  red  tongues  lolling  out,  their  breath  and  their 
cries  spouting  thick  before  them.  On  whom  they 
will  fall  next — one  never  knows;  the  innocent  with 
the  guilty.  Perhaps  if  you  were  to  see  some  one 
dear  to  you  devoured  before  your  eyes,  monsieur 
le  cure,  you  would  feel  it  too;  and  yet — I  do  not 
know." 

Fort  saw  Noel  turn  her  face  towards  her  father; 
her  expression  at  that  moment  was  very  strange,, 
searching,  half  frightened.  No!  Leila  had  not 
lied,  and  he  had  not  dreamed !  That  thing  was 
true! 

When  presently  he  took  his  leave,  and  was  out 
again  in  the  Square,  he  could  see  nothing  but  her 
face  and  form  before  him  in  the  moonlight:  its  soft 
outline,  fair  colouring,  slender  delicacy,  and  the 
brooding  of  the  big  grey  eyes.  He  had  already 
crossed  New  Oxford  Street  and  was  some  way  down 
towards  the  Strand,  when  a  voice  behind  him 
murmured:  '^Ahl  c'est  vous,  monsieur!'^  and  the 
painter  loomed  up  at  his  elbow. 

*^Are  you  going  my  way?"  said  Fort.  "I  go 
slowly,  I'm  afraid." 


178  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"The  slower  the  better,  monsieur.  London  is 
so  beautiful  in  the  dark.  It  is  the  despair  of  the 
painter — these  moonlit  nights.  There  are  moments 
when  one  feels  that  reality  does  not  exist.  All  is 
in  dreams — like  the  face  of  that  young  lady." 

Fort  stared  sharply  round  at  him.  "Oh!  She 
strikes  you  like  that,  does  she?" 

"Ah!  What  a  charming  figure!  What  an  at- 
mosphere of  the  past  and  future  round  her!  And 
she  will  not  let  me  paint  her!  WeU,  perhaps  only 
Mathieu  Maris — "  He  raised  his  broad  Bohemian 
hat,  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair. 

"Yes,"  said  Fort,  "she'd  make  a  wonderful  pic- 
ture.   I'm  not  a  judge  of  Art,  but  I  can  see  that." 

The  painter  smiled,  and  went  on  in  his  rapid 
French : 

"She  has  youth  and  age  all  at  once — that  is  rare. 
Her  father  is  an  interesting  man,  too;  I  am  trying 
to  paint  him;  he  is  very  difficult.  He  sits  lost  in 
some  kind  of  vacancy  of  his  own;  a  man  whose 
soul  has  gone  before  him  somewhere,  like  that  of 
his  Church,  escaped  from  this  age  of  machines,  leav- 
ing its  body  behind — ^is  it  not?  He  is  so  kind;  a 
saint,  I  think.  The  other  clergymen  I  see  passing 
in  the  street  are  not  at  all  like  him;  they  look  but- 
toned-up  and  busy,  with  faces  of  men  who  might 
be  schoolmasters  or  lawyers,  or  even  soldiers — ^men 
of  this  world.  Do  you  know  this,  monsieur — ^it  is 
ironical,  but  it  is  true,  I  think — a.  man  cannot  be 
a  successful  priest  unless  he  is  a  man  of  this  world. 
I  do  not  see  any  with  that  look  of  Monsieur  Pierson, 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  179 

a  little  tortured  within,  and  not  quite  present.  He 
is  half  an  artist,  really  a  lover  of  music,  that  man. 
I  am  painting  him  at  the  piano;  when  he  is  playing 
his  face  is  alive,  but  even  then,  so  far  away.  To 
me,  monsieur,  he  is  exactly  Hke  a  beautiful  church 
which  knows  it  is  being  deserted.  I  find  him  pathetic. 
Je  suis  socialiste,  but  I  have  always  an  aesthetic 
admiration  for  that  old  Church,  which  held  its  chil- 
dren by  simple  emotion.  The  times  have  changed; 
it  can  no  longer  hold  them  so;  it  stands  in  the  dusk, 
with  its  spire  to  a  heaven  which  exists  no  more,  its 
bells,  still  beautiful  but  out  of  tune  with  the  music 
of  the  streets.  It  is  something  of  that  which  I  wish 
to  get  into  my  picture  of  Monsieur  Pierson;  and 
sapristi!  it  is  difficult ! "  Fort  grunted  assent.  So 
far  as  he  could  make  out  the  painter's  words,  it 
seemed  to  him  a  large  order. 

"To  do  it,  you  see,"  went  on  the  painter,  "one 
should  have  the  proper  background — these  currents 
of  modem  Hfe  and  modem  types,  passing  him  and 
leaving  him  untouched.  There  is  no  illusion,  and 
no  dreaming,  in  modem  life.  Look  at  this  street. 
La,  la!'' 

In  the  darkened  Strand,  hundreds  of  khaki-clad 
figures  and  girls  were  streaming  by,  and  all  their 
voices  had  a  hard,  half-jovial  vulgarity.  The  motor- 
cabs  and  'buses  pushed  along  remorselessly;  news- 
paper-sellers muttered  their  ceaseless  invitations. 
Again  the  painter  made  his  gesture  of  despair :  "How 
am  I  to  get  into  my  picture  this  modem  life,  which 
washes  round  him  as  ro'ond  that  church,  there,  stand- 


i8o  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

ing  in  the  middle  of  the  street?  See  how  the  cur- 
rents sweep  round  it,  as  if  to  wash  it  away;  yet  it 
stands,  seeming  not  to  see  them.  If  I  were  a  phan- 
tasist,  it  would  be  easy  enough:  but  to  be  a  phan- 
tasist  is  too  simple  for  me — those  romantic  gentlemen 
bring  what  they  like  from  anywhere,  to  serve  their 
ends.  Moi,  je  suis  realiste.  And  so,  monsieur,  I 
have  invented  an  idea.  I  am  painting  over  his  head 
while  he  sits  there  at  the  piano  a  picture  hanging 
on  the  wall — of  one  of  these  young  towTi  girls  who 
have  no  mysteriousness  at  aU,  no  youth;  nothing 
but  a  cheap  knowledge  and  defiance,  and  good  hu- 
mour. He  is  looking  up  at  it,  but  he  does  not  see- 
it.  I  will  make  the  face  of  that  girl  the  face  of  modem 
life,  and  he  shall  sit  staring  at  it,  seeing  nothing. 
What  do  you  think  of  my  idea?" 

But  Fort  had  begun  to  feel  something  of  the  re- 
volt which  the  man  of  action  so  soon  experiences 
when  he  listens  to  an  artist  talking. 

"It  sounds  all  right,"  he  said  abruptly;  ''all  the 
same,  monsieur,  all  my  sympathy  is  with  modern 
life.  Take  these  young  girls,  and  these  Tommies. 
For  all  their  feather-pated  vulgarity — and  they  are 
damned  vulgar,  I  must  say — they're  marvellous 
people;  they  do  take  the  rough  with  the  smooth; 
they're  all  'doing  their  bit,'  you  know,  and  facing 
this  particularly  beastly  world.  ^Esthetically,  I 
daresay,  they're  deplorable,  but  can  you  say  that 
on  the  whole  their  philosophy  isn't  an  advance  on 
an3^hing  we've  had  up  till  now?  They  worship 
nothing,  it's  true;  but  they  keep  their  ends  up  mar- 
vellously." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  i8i 

The  painter,  who  seemed  to  feel  the  wind  blow- 
ing cold  on  his  ideas,  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  am  not  concerned  with  that,  monsieur;  I  set 
down  what  I  see;  better  or  worse,  I  do  not  know. 
But  look  at  this !"  And  he  pointed  down  the  dark- 
ened and  moonlit  street.  It  was  all  jewelled  and 
enamelled  with  Httle  spots  and  splashes  of  subdued 
red  and  green-blue  Hght,  and  the  downward  orange 
glow  of  the  high  lamps — ^Hke  an  enchanted  dream- 
street  peopled  by  countless  moving  shapes,  which 
only  came  to  earth-reality  when  seen  close  to.  The 
painter  drew  his  breath  in  with  a  hiss. 

''Ah !  "  he  said,  "what  beauty !  And  they  don't 
see  it — not  one  in  a  thousand !  Pity,  isn't  it  ? 
Beauty  is  the  holy  thing ! " 

Fort,  in  his  turn,  shrugged  his  shoulders:  "Every 
man  to  his  \dsion!"  he  said.  "My  leg's  beginning 
to  bother  me;  I'm  afraid  I  must  take  a  cab.  Here's 
my  address;  any  time  you  like  to  come.  I'm  often 
in  about  seven.  I  can't  take  you  anywhere,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"A  thousand  thanks,  monsieur;  but  I  go  north. 
I  loved  your  words  about  the  pack.  I  often  wake 
at  night  and  hear  the  howling  of  all  the  packs  of  the 
world.  Those  who  are  by  nature  gentle  nowadays 
feel  they  are  strangers  in  a  far  land.  Good  night, 
monsieur!" 

He  took  ojff  his  queer  hat,  bowed  low,  and  crossed 
out  into  the  Strand,  like  one  who  had  come  in  a 
dream,  and  faded  out  with  the  waking.  Fort  hailed 
a  cab,  and  went  home,  still  seeing  Noel's  face.    There 


1 82  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

was  one,  if  you  liked,  waiting  to  be  thrown  to  the 
wolves,  waiting  for  the  world's  pack  to  begin  howling 
round  her — that  lovely  child;  and  the  first,  the 
loudest  of  all  the  pack^  perhaps,  must  be  her  own 
father,  the  lean,  dark  figure  with  the  gentle  face, 
and  the  burnt  bright  eyes.  What  a  ghastly  busi- 
ness !  His  dreams  that  night  were  not  such  as  Leila 
would  have  approved. 


DC 

When  in  the  cupboard  there  is  a  real  and  very 
bony  skeleton,  carefuUy  kept  from  the  sight  of  a 
single  member  of  the  family,  the  position  of  that 
member  is  liable  to  become  lonely.  But  Pierson, 
who  had  been  lonely  fifteen  years,  did  not  feel  it 
so  much,  perhaps,  as  most  men  would  have.  In 
his  dreamy  nature  there  was  a  curious  self-sufficiency, 
which  only  violent  shocks  disturbed,  and  he  went  on 
with  his  routine  of  duty,  which  had  become  for  him 
as  set  as  the  pavements  he  trod  on  his  way  to  and 
from  it.  It  was  not  exactly  true,  as  the  painter  had 
said,  that  this  routine  did  not  bring  him  into  touch 
with  Ufe.  After  all  he  saw  people  when  they  were 
born,  when  they  married,  when  they  died.  He  helped 
them  when  they  wanted  money,  and  when  they  were 
ill;  he  told  their  children  Bible  stories  on  Sunday 
afternoons;  he  served  those  who  were  in  need  with 
soup  and  bread  from  his  soup  kitchen.  He  never 
spared  himself  in  any  way,  and  his  ears  were  always 
at  the  service  of  their  woes.  And  yet  he  did  not 
understand  them,  and  they  knew  that.  It  was  as 
though  he,  or  they,  were  colour-blind.  The  values 
were  all  different.  He  was  seeing  one  set  of  objects, 
they  another. 

One  street  of  his  parish  touched  a  main  line  of 
thoroughfare,  and  formed  a  little  part  of  the  new 

183 


i84  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

hunting-grounds  of  women,  who,  chased  forth  from 
their  usual  haunts  by  the  Authorities  under  pres- 
sure of  the  country's  danger,  now  pursued  their 
calling  in  the  dark.  This  particular  evil  had  always 
been  a  sort  of  nightmare  to  Pierson.  The  starva- 
tion which  ruled  his  own  existence  incHned  him  to 
a  particularly  severe  view  and  severity  was  not  his 
strong  point.  In  consequence  there  was  ever  with- 
in him  a  sort  of  very  personal  and  poignant  struggle 
going  on  beneath  that  seeming  attitude  of  rigid  dis- 
approval. He  joined  the  hunters,  as  it  were,  be- 
cause he  was  afraid — not,  of  course,  of  his  own  in- 
stincts, for  he  was  fastidious,  a  gentleman,  and  a 
priest,  but  of  being  lenient  to  a  sin,  to  something 
which  God  abhorred.  He  was,  as  it  were,  bound  to 
take  a  professional  view  of  this  particular  offence. 
When  in  his  walks  abroad  he  passed  one  of  these 
women,  he  would  unconsciously  purse  his  lips,  and 
frown.  The  darkness  of  the  streets  seemed  to  lend 
them  such  power,  such  unholy  sovereignty  over 
the  night.  They  were  such  a  danger  to  the  sol- 
diers, too;  and  in  turn,  the  soldiers  were  such  a 
danger  to  the  lambs  of  his  flock.  Domestic  dis- 
asters in  his  parish  came  to  his  ears  from  time 
to  time;  cases  of  young  girls  whose  heads  were 
turned  by  soldiers,  so  that  they  were  about  to  be- 
come mothers.  They  seemed  to  him  pitiful  indeed; 
but  he  could  not  forgive  them  for  their  giddiness, 
for  putting  temptation  in  the  way  of  brave  young 
men,  fighting,  or  about  to  fight.  The  glamour  which 
surrounded  soldiers  was  not  excuse  enough.    When 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  185 

the  babies  were  bom,  and  came  to  his  notice,  he 
consulted  a  Committee  he  had  formed,  of  three 
married  and  two  maiden  ladies,  who  visited  the 
mothers,  and  if  necessary  took  the  babies  into  a 
creche;  for  those  babies  had  a  new  value  to  the 
country,  and  were  not — ^poor  httle  things ! — to  be 
held  responsible  for  their  mothers'  faults.  He  him- 
self saw  Httle  of  the  young  mothers;  shy  of  them, 
secretly  afraid,  perhaps,  of  not  being  censorious 
enough.  But  once  in  a  way  Life  set  him  face  to 
face  with  one. 

On  New  Year's  Eve  he  was  sitting  in  his  study 
after  tea,  at  that  hour  which  he  tried  to  keep  for 
his  parishioners,  when  a  Mrs.  Mitchett  was  an- 
nounced, a  small  book-seller's  wife,  whom  he  knew 
for  an  occasional  Communicant.  She  came  in,  ac- 
companied by  a  young  dark-eyed  girl  in  a  loose 
mouse-coloured  coat.  At  his  in\dtation  they  sat 
down  in  front  of  the  long  bookcase  on  the  two  green 
leather  chairs  which  had  grown  worn  in  the  service 
of  the  parish;  and,  screwed  round  in  his  chair  at 
the  bureau,  with  his  long  musician's  fingers  pressed 
together,  he  looked  at  them  and  waited.  The  woman 
had  taken  out  her  handkerchief,  and  was  wiping 
her  eyes;  but  the  girl  sat  quiet,  as  the  mouse  she 
somewhat  resembled  in  that  coat. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Mitchett?"  he  said  gently,  at  last. 

The  woman  put  away  her  handkerchief,  sniffed 
resolutely,  and  began: 

"It's  'Ilda,  sir.  Such  a  thing  Mitchett  and  me 
never  could  'ave  expected,  comin'  on  us  so  sudden. 


i86  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

I  thought  it  best  to  bring  'er  round,  poor  girl.  Of 
course,  it's  all  the  war.  I've  warned  'er  a  dozen 
times;  but  there  it  is,  comin'  next  month,  and  the 
man  in  France."  Pierson  instinctively  averted  his 
gaze  from  the  girl,  who  had  not  moved  her  eyes 
from  his  face,  which  she  scanned  with  a  seeming 
absence  of  mterest,  as  if  she  had  long  given  up  think- 
ing over  her  lot,  and  left  it  now  to  others. 

"That  is  sad,"  he  said;   "very,  very  sad." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Mrs.  Mitchett;  "that's  what 
I  tell  'Ilda." 

The  girl's  glance,  lowered  for  a  second,  resumed 
its  impersonal  scrutiny  of  Pierson's  face. 

"What  is  the  man's  name  and  regiment?  Per- 
haps we  can  get  leave  for  him  to  come  home  and 
marry  Hilda  at  once." 

Mrs.  Mitchett  sniffed.  "She  won't  give  it,  sir. 
Now,  'Ilda,  give  it  to  Mr.  Pierson."  And  her  voice 
had  a  real  note  of  entreaty.  The  girl  shook  her 
head.  Mrs.  Mitchett  murmured  dolefully:  "That's 
'ow  she  is,  sir;  not  a  word  will  she  say.  And  as  I 
tell  her,  we  can  only  think  there  must  'ave  been 
more  than  one.    And  that  does  put  us  to  shame  so !" 

But  still  the  girl  made  no  sign. 

"You  speak  to  her,  sir;  I'm  reaUy  at  my  wit's 
end." 

"Why  won't  you  tell  us?"  said  Pierson.  "The 
man  will  want  to  do  the  right  thing,  I'm  sure." 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  and  spoke  for  the  first 
time. 

"I  don't  know  his  name." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  187 

Mrs.  Mitchett's  face  twitched. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  said:  "Think  of  that!  She's 
never  said  as  much  to  us." 

"Not  know  his  name?"  Pierson  murmured. 
"But  how — ^how  could  you — "  he  stopped,  but  his 
face  had  darkened.  "Surely  you  would  never  have 
done  such  a  thing  without  affection?  Come,  tell 
me!" 

"I  don't  know  it,"  the  girl  repeated. 

"It's  these  Parks,"  said  Mrs.  Mitchett,  from  be- 
hind her  handkerchief.  "And  to  think  that  this'll 
be  our  first  grandchild  and  all!  'Ilda  is  difficult; 
as  quiet,  as  quiet;  but  that  stubborn " 

Pierson  looked  at  the  girl,  who  seemed,  if  any- 
thing, less  interested  than  ever.  This  impenetrabil- 
ity and  something  muhsh  in  her  attitude  annoyed 
him.  "I  can't  think,"  he  said,  "how  you  could 
so  have  forgotten  yourself.    It's  truly  grievous." 

Mrs.  Mitchett  murmured:  "Yes,  sir;  the  girls 
gets  it  into  their  heads  that  there's  going  to  be  no 
young  men  for  them." 

"That's  right,"  said  the  girl  sullenly. 

Pierson's  lips  grew  tighter.  "Well,  what  can  I 
do  for  you,  Mrs.  Mitchett?"  he  said.  "Does  your 
daughter  come  to  church?" 

Mrs.  Mitchett  shook  her  head  mournfully. 
"Never  since  she  had  her  byke." 

Pierson  rose  from  his  chair.  The  old  story !  Con- 
trol and  discipline  undermined,  and  these  bitter 
apples  the  result ! 

"  WeU,"  he  said,  "if  you  need  our  creche,  you  have 


i88  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

only  to  come  to  me,"  and  he  turned  to  the  girl.  "And 
you — ^won't  you  let  this  dreadful  experience  move 
your  heart  ?  My  dear  girl,  we  must  all  master  our- 
selves, our  passions,  and  our  fooHsh  wilfulness,  espe- 
cially in  these  times  when  our  country  needs  us 
strong,  and  self-disciplined,  not  thinking  of  our- 
selves.   I'm  sure  you're  a  good  girl  at  heart." 

The  girl's  dark  eyes,  unmoved  from  his  face,  roused 
in  him  a  spasm  of  nervous  irritation.  "Your  soul  is 
in  great  danger,  and  you're  very  unhappy,  I  can 
see.  Turn  to  God  for  help,  and  in  His  mercy  every- 
thing will  be  made  so  different  for  you — so  very 
different!     Come!" 

The  girl  said  with  a  sort  of  surprising  quietness: 
"I  don't  want  the  baby!" 

The  remark  staggered  him,  almost  as  if  she  had 
uttered  a  hideous  oath. 

"'Ilda  was  in  munitions,"  said  her  mother  in  an 
explanatory  voice:  "eamin'  a  matter  of  four  pound 
a  week.  Oh !  dear,  it  is  a  waste  an'  all !"  A  queer, 
rather  terrible  little  smile  curled  Pierson's  lips. 

"A  judgment!"  he  said.  "Good  evening,  Mrs. 
Mitchett.  Good  evening,  Hilda.  If  you  want  me 
when  the  time  comes,  send  for  me." 

They  stood  up;  he  shook  hands  with  them;  and 
was  suddenly  aware  that  the  door  was  open,  and  Noel 
standing  there.  He  had  heard  no  sound;  and  how 
long  she  had  been  there  he  could  not  tell.  There 
was  a  singular  fixity  in  her  face  and  attitude.  She 
was  staring  at  the  girl,  who,  as  she  passed,  lifted  her 
face,  so  that  the  dark  eyes  and  the  grey  eyes  met. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  189 

The  door  was  shut,  and  Noel  stood  there  alone  with 
him. 

"Aren't  you  early,  my  child?"  said  Pierson. 
"You  came  in  very  quietly." 

"Yes;   I  heard." 

A  shght  shock  went  through  him  at  the  tone  of 
her  voice;  her  face  had  that  possessed  look  which 
he  always  dreaded.  "What  did  you  hear?"  he 
said. 

"I  heard  you  say:  *A  judgment!'  You'U  say 
the  same  to  me,  won't  you?  Only,  /  do  want  my 
babyJ' 

She  was  standing  with  her  back  to  the  door,  over 
which  a  dark  curtain  himg;  her  face  looked  young 
and  small  against  its  stuff,  her  eyes  very  large.  With 
one  hand  she  plucked  at  her  blouse,  just  over  her 
heart. 

Pierson  stared  at  her,  and  gripped  the  back  of 
the  chair  he  had  been  sitting  in.  A  Hfetime  of  re- 
pression served  him  in  the  half-realised  horror  of 
that  moment.  He  stammered  out  the  single  word: 
"NoUie!" 

"It's  quite  true,"  she  said,  turned  round,  and 
went  out. 

Pierson  had  a  sort  of  vertigo;  if  he  had  moved, 
he  must  have  fallen  down.  NoUie !  He  sUd  round 
and  sank  into  his  chair,  and  by  some  horrible 
cruel  fiction  of  his  nerves,  he  seemed  to  feel  Noel 
on  his  knee,  as,  when  a  httle  girl,  she  had  been 
wont  to  sit,  with  her  fair  hair  fluffing  against  his 
cheek.    He  seemed  to  feel  that  hair  tickling  his  skin; 


IQO  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

it  used  to  be  the  greatest  comfort  he  had  known 
since  her  mother  died.  At  that  moment  his  pride 
shrivelled  Uke  a  flower  held  to  a  flame;  all  that 
abundant  secret  pride  of  a  father  who  loves  and 
admires,  who  worships  still  a  dead  wife  in  the  chil- 
dren she  has  left  him;  who,  humble  by  nature,  yet 
never  knows  how  proud  he  is  till  the  bitter  thing 
happens;  all  the  bng  pride  of  the  priest  who,  by 
dint  of  exhortation  and  remonstrance  has  coated 
himself  in  a  superiority  he  hardly  suspects — all  this 
pride  shrivelled  in  him.  Then  something  writhed 
and  cried  within,  as  a  tortured  beast  cries,  at  loss 
to  know  why  it  is  being  tortured.  How  many  times 
has  not  a  man  used  those  words :  '  My  God !  My 
God!  Why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me!'  He  sprang 
up  and  tried  to  pace  his  way  out  of  this  cage  of  con- 
fusion. His  thoughts  and  feelings  made  the  strangest 
medley,  spiritual  and  worldly — Social  ostracism — • 
her  soul  in  peril — a  trial  sent  by  God !  The  future ! 
Imagination  failed  him.  He  went  to  his  little  piano, 
opened  it,  closed  it  again;  took  his  hat,  and  stole 
out.  He  walked  fast,  without  knowing  where.  It 
was  very  cold — a  clear,  bitter  evening.  Silent  rapid 
motion  in  the  frosty  air  was  some  rehef.  As  Noel 
had  fled  from  him,  having  uttered  her  news,  so  did 
he  fly  from  her.  The  afflicted  walk  fast.  He  was 
soon  dowTi  by  the  river,  and  turned  West  along  its 
wall.  The  moon  was  up,  bright  and  nearly  full, 
and  the  steel-like  shimmer  of  its  light  burnished 
the  ebbing  water.  A  cruel  night !  He  came  to  the 
Obelisk,  and  leaned  against  it,  overcome  by  a  spasm 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  191 

of  realisation.  He  seemed  to  see  his  dead  wife's 
face  staring  at  him  out  of  the  past,  Hke  an  accusa- 
tion. 'How  have  you  cared  for  Nollie,  that  she 
should  have  come  to  this?'  It  became  the  face  of 
the  moonlit  sphinx,  staring  straight  at  him,  the 
broad  dark  face  with  wide  nostrils,  cruel  lips,  full 
eyes  blank  of  pupils,  all  hvened  and  whitened  by 
the  moonUght — an  embodiment  of  the  marvellous 
unseeing  energy  of  Life,  twisting  and  turning  hearts 
without  mercy.  He  gazed  into  those  eyes  with  a 
sort  of  scared  defiance.  The  great  clawed  paws  of 
the  beast,  the  strength  and  remorseless  serenity  of 
that  crouching  creature  with  human  head,  made 
living  by  his  imagination  and  the  moonlight,  seemed 
to  him  like  a  temptation  to  deny  God,  hke  a  refuta- 
tion of  human  virtue. 

Then,  the  sense  of  beauty  stirred  in  him ;  he  moved 
where  he  could  see  its  flanks  coated  in  silver  by  the 
moonlight,  the  ribs  and  the  great  muscles,  and  the 
tail  with  tip  coiled  over  the  haunch,  like  the  head 
of  a  serpent.  It  was  weirdly  hving,  fine  and  cruel, 
that  great  man-made  thing.  It  expressed  something 
in  the  soul  of  man,  pitiless  and  remote  from  love — 
or  rather,  the  remorselessness  which  man  had  seen 
lurking  within  man's  fate.  Pierson  recoiled  from 
it,  and  resumed  his  march  along  the  Embankment, 
almost  deserted  in  the  bitter  cold.  He  came  to 
where,  in  the  opening  of  the  Underground  railway, 
he  could  see  the  httle  forms  of  people  moving,  little 
orange  and  red  lights  glowing.  The  sight  arrested 
him  by  its  warmth  and  motion.    Was  it  not  all  a 


192  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

dream?  That  woman  and  her  daughter,  had  they 
really  come?  Had  not  Noel  been  but  an  appari- 
tion, her  words  a  trick  which  his  nerves  had  played 
him?  Then,  too  vividly  again,  he  saw  her  face 
against  the  dark  stuff  of  the  curtain,  the  curve  of 
her  hand  plucking  at  her  blouse,  heard  the  sound 
of  his  own  horrified:  "Nollie!"  No  illusion,  no 
deception !  The  edifice  of  his  life  was  in  the  dust. 
And  a  queer  and  ghastly  company  of  faces  came 
about  him;  faces  he  had  thought  friendly,  of  good 
men  and  women  whom  he  knew,  yet  at  that  mo- 
ment did  not  know,  aU  gathered  round  Noel,  with 
fingers  pointing  at  her.  He  staggered  back  from  that 
vision,  could  not  bear  it,  could  not  recognise  this 
calamity.  With  a  sort  of  comfort,  yet  an  aching 
sense  of  unreaHty,  his  mind  flew  to  all  those  summer 
holidays  spent  in  Scotland,  Ireland,  Cornwall,  Wales, 
by  mountain  and  lake,  mth  his  two  girls;  what 
sunsets,  and  turning  leaves,  birds,  beasts,  and  in- 
sects they  had  watched  together !  From  their  youth- 
ful companionship,  their  eagerness,  their  confidence 
in  him,  he  had  known  so  much  warmth  and  pleasure. 
If  all  those  memories  were  true,  surely  this  could 
not  be  true.  He  felt  suddenly  that  he  must  hurry 
back,  go  straight  to  Noel,  tell  her  that  she  had  been 
cruel  to  him,  or  assure  himseK  that,  for  the  moment, 
she  had  been  insane.  His  temper  rose  suddenly, 
took  fire.  He  felt  anger  against  her,  against  every 
one  he  knew,  against  Hfe  itself.  Thrusting  his  hands 
deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  thin  black  overcoat, 
he  plunged  into  that  narrow  glowing  tunnel  of  the 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  ip3 

station  booking-office,  which  led  back  to  the  crowded 
streets.  But  by  the  time  he  reached  home  his  anger 
had  evaporated ;  he  felt  nothing  but  utter  lassitude. 
It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  the  maids  had  cleared  the 
dining-table,  in  despair.  Noel  had  gone  up  to  her 
room.  He  had  no  courage  left,  and  sat  down  supper- 
less  at  his  httle  piano,  letting  his  fingers  find  soft 
painful  harmonies,  so  that  Noel  perhaps  heard  the 
faint  far  thrumming  of  that  music  through  uneasy 
dreams.  And  there  he  stayed,  till  it  became  time 
for  him  to  go  forth  to  the  Old  Year's  Midnight  Ser- 
vice. 

When  he  returned,  Pierson  wrapped  himself  in 
a  rug  and  lay  down  on  the  old  sofa  in  his  study. 
The  maid,  coming  in  next  morning  to  'do'  the  grate, 
found  him  stiU  asleep.  She  stood  contemplating 
him  in  awe;  a  broad-faced,  kindly,  fresh-coloured 
girl.  He  lay  with  his  face  resting  on  his  hand,  his 
dark,  just  grizzling  hair  unruffled,  as  if  he  had  not 
stirred  all  night;  his  other  hand  clutched  the  rug 
to  his  chest,  and  his  booted  feet  protruded  beyond 
it.  To  her  young  eyes  he  looked  rather  appalHngly 
neglected.  She  gazed  with  interest  at  the  hollows 
in  his  cheeks,  and  the  furrows  in  his  brow,  and  the 
Hps,  dark-moustached  and  bearded,  so  tightly  com- 
pressed, even  in  sleep.  Being  holy  didn't  make  a 
man  happy,  it  seemed !  What  fascinated  her  were 
the  cindery  eyelashes  resting  on  the  cheeks,  the 
faint  movement  of  face  and  body  as  he  breathed, 
the  gentle  hiss  of  breath  escaping  through  the  twitch- 
ing nostrils.    She  moved  nearer,  bending  down  over 


194 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


him,  with  the  childhke  notion  of  counting  those 
lashes.  Her  Hps  parted  in  readiness  to  say:  "Oh !" 
if  he  waked.  Something  in  his  face,  and  the  Httle 
twitches  which  passed  over  it,  made  her  feel  'that 
sorry'  for  him.  He  was  a  gentleman,  had  money, 
preached  to  her  every  Sunday,  and  was  not  so  very 
old — ^what  more  could  a  man  want?  And  yet — 
he  looked  so  tired,  with  those  cheeks.  She  pitied 
him;  helpless  and  lonely  he  seemed  to  her,  asleep 
there  instead  of  going  to  bed  properly.  And  sigh- 
ing, she  tiptoed  towards  the  door. 

"Is  that  you,  Bessie?" 

The  girl  turned:  "Yes,  sir.  I'm  sorry  I  woke 
you,  sir.    'Appy  New  Year,  sir ! " 

"Ah,  yes.    A  Happy  New  Year,  Bessie." 

She  saw  his  usual  smile,  saw  it  die,  and  a  fixed 
look  come  on  his  face;  it  scared  her,  and  she  hurried 
away.  Pierson  had  remembered.  For  full  five 
minutes  he  lay  there  staring  at  nothing.  Then  he 
rose,  folded  the  rug  mechanically,  and  looked  at 
the  clock.  Eight !  He  went  upstairs,  knocked  on 
Noel's  door,  and  entered. 

The  bHnds  were  drawn  up,  but  she  was  still  in 
bed.  He  stood  looking  down  at  her.  "A  Happy 
New  Year,  my  child!"  he  said;  and  he  trembled 
all  over,  shivering  visibly.  She  looked  so  young 
and  innocent,  so  round-faced  and  fresh,  after  her 
night's  sleep,  that  the  thought  sprang  up  in  him 
again :  '  It  must  have  been  a  dream ! '  She  did  not 
move,  but  a  slow  flush  came  up  in  her  cheeks.  No 
dream — no  dream!    He  said  tremulously:   "I  can't 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  195 

realise.  I — I  hoped  I  had  heard  wrong.  Didn't 
I,  NolKe?    Didn't  I?" 

She  just  shook  her  head. 

''Tell  me  everything,"  he  said;  "for  God's  sake !" 

He  saw  her  lips  moving,  and  caught  the  murmur : 
"There's  nothing  more.  Gratian  and  George  know, 
and  Leila.  It  can't  be  undone,  Daddy.  Perhaps 
I  wouldn't  have  wanted  to  make  sure,  if  you  hadn't 
tried  to  stop  Cyril  and  me — and  I'm  glad  sometimes, 
because  I  shaU  have  something  of  his — "  She  looked 
up  at  him.  "After  all,  it's  the  same,  really;  only, 
there's  no  ring.  It's  no  good  talking  to  me  now,  as 
if  I  hadn't  been  thinking  of  this  for  ages.  I'm  used 
to  anything  you  can  say;  I've  said  it  to  myself,  you 
see.    There's  nothing  but  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

Her  hot  hand  came  out  from  under  the  bedclothes, 
and  clutched  his  very  tight.  Her  flush  had  deep- 
ened, and  her  eyes  seemed  to  him  to  glitter. 

"Oh,  Daddy!  You  do  look  tired!  Haven't  you 
been  to  bed?    Poor  Daddy!" 

That  hot  clutch,  and  the  words:  "Poor  Daddy !" 
brought  tears  into  his  eyes.  They  rolled  slowly 
down  to  his  beard,  and  he  covered  his  face  with  the 
other  hand.  Her  grip  tightened  convulsively;  sud- 
denly she  dragged  it  to  her  Hps,  kissed  it,  and  let 
it  drop. 

"Don't!"  she  said,  and  turned  away  her  face. 

Pierson  effaced  his  emotion,  and  said  quite  calmly : 

"Shall  you  wish  to  be  at  home,  my  dear,  or  to 
go  elsewhere?" 

Noel  had  begun  to  toss  her  head  on  her  pillow, 


196  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

like  a  feverish  child  whose  hair  gets  in  its  eyes  and 
mouth. 

''Oh!    I  don't  know;  what  does  it  matter?" 

"Kestrel;  would  you  Hke  to  go  there?  Your 
aunt — I  could  write  to  her."  Noel  stared  at  him 
a  moment;   a  struggle  seemed  going  on  within  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  would.  Only,  not  Uncle 
Bob." 

"Perhaps  your  uncle  would  come  up  here,  and 
keep  me  company." 

She  turned  her  face  away,  and  that  tossing  move- 
ment of  the  limbs  beneath  the  clothes  began  again. 
"I  don't  care,"  she  said;  "anywhere — ^it  doesn't 
matter." 

Pierson  put  his  chilly  hand  on  her  forehead. 
"Gently!"  he  said,  and  knelt  down  by  the  bed. 
"Merciful  Father,"  he  murmured,  "give  us  strength 
to  bear  this  dreadful  trial.  Keep  my  beloved  child 
safe,  and  bring  her  peace;  and  give  me  to  under- 
stand how  I  have  done  wrong,  how  I  have  failed 
towards  Thee,  and  her.  In  all  things  chasten  and 
strengthen  her,  my  child,  and  me." 

His  thoughts  moved  on  in  the  confused,  inar- 
ticulate suspense  of  prayer,  till  he  heard  her 
say: 

"You  haven't  failed;  why  do  you  talk  of  failing — • 
it  isn't  true;  and  don't  pray  for  me.  Daddy." 

Pierson  raised  himscK,  and  moved  back  from  the 
bed.  Her  words  confounded  him,  yet  he  was  afraid 
to  answer.  She  pushed  her  head  deep  into  the  pillow, 
and  lay  looking  up  at  the  ceiling. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  197  ^ 

"I  shall  have  a  son;  Cyril  won't  quite  have  died. 
And  I  don't  want  to  be  forgiven." 

He  dimly  perceived  what  long  dumb  processes  of 
thought  and  feeling  had  gone  on  in  her  to  produce 
this  hardened  state  of  mind,  which  to  him  seemed 
almost  blasphemous.  And  in  the  very  midst  of 
this  turmoil  in  his  heart,  he  could  not  help  thinking 
how  lovely  her  face  looked,  lying  back  so  that  the 
curve  of  her  throat  was  bared,  with  the  short  ten- 
drils of  hair  coiling  about  it.  That  flung-back  head, 
moving  restlessly  from  side  to  side  in  the  heat  of 
the  soft  piUow,  had  such  a  passion  of  protesting 
life  in  it !    And  he  kept  silence. 

"I  want  you  to  know  it  was  aU  me.  But  I  can't 
pretend.  Of  course  I'll  try  and  not  let  it  hurt  you 
more  than  I  possibly  can.  I'm  soriy  for  you, 
poor  Daddy;  oh!  I'm  sorry  for  you!"  With  a 
movement  incredibly  lithe  and  swift,  she  turned 
and  pressed  her  face  down  in  the  pillow,  so  that  all 
he  could  see  was  her  tumbled  hair  and  the  bedclothes 
trembling  above  her  shoulders.  He  tried  to  stroke 
that  hair,  but  she  shook  her  head  free,  and  he  stole 
out. 

She  did  not  come  to  breakfast;  and  when  his 
own  wretched  meal  was  over,  the  mechanism,  of 
his  professional  life  caught  him  again  at  once.  New 
Year's  Day !  He  had  much  to  do.  He  had,  before 
all,  to  be  of  a  cheerful  countenance  before  his  flock, 
to  greet  all  and  any  with  an  air  of  hope  and 
courage. 


I§ 

Thtrza  Pierson,  seeing  her  brother-in-law's  hand- 
writing, naturally  said:  "Here's  a  letter  from  Ted." 

Bob  Pierson,  with  a  mouth  full  of  sausage,  as 
naturally  responded: 

"What  does  he  say?" 

In  reading  on,  she  found  that  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion was  one  of  the  most  difficult  tasks  ever  set  her. 
Its  news  moved  and  disturbed  her  deeply.  Under 
her  wing  this  disaster  had  happened !  Down  here 
had  been  wrought  this  most  deplorable  miracle, 
fraught  with  such  dislocation  of  iives !  Noel's  face, 
absorbed  and  passionate,  outside  the  door  of  her 
room  on  the  night  when  Cyril  Morland  went  away, 
started  up  before  her.  So !  Her  instinct  had  been 
right — an  instinct  she  had  tried  to  smother!  She 
began  backward: 

"He  wants  you  to  go  up  and  stay  with  him, 
Bob." 

"Why  not  both  of  us?" 

"He  wants  NoHie  to  come  down  to  me;  she's 
not  well." 

"Not  well?    What's  the  matter?" 

A  short  struggle  took  place  within  Thirza.  To 
tell  him  seemed  disloyalty  to  her  sex;  not  to  tell 
him,  disloyalty  to  her  husband.    As  is  usual  in  Hfe, 

198 


,  SAINT'S  PROGRESS  199 

a  very  simple  consideration  of  fact  and  not  of  prin- 
ciple, decided  her.  He  would  certainly  say  in  a 
moment:  "Here!  Pitch  it  over!"  and  she  would 
have  to  pitch  it.  She  leaned  forward,  looked  him 
full  in  the  face,  and  said  tranquilly: 

"You  remember  that  night  when  Cyril  Morland 
went  away,  and  Noel  behaved  so  strangely.  Well, 
my  dear,  she  is  going  to  have  a  child  at  the  begin- 
ning of  April.  The  poor  boy  is  dead.  Bob;  be  gentle 
— ^he  died  for  the  Country." 

She  saw  the  red  tide  flowing  up  into  his  face,  and 
thought  absently:  " Oh,  is  his  mouth  full ?  What's 
coming?" 

Little  or  nothing  came  but  a  gasp  and  the  word: 
"What!" 

"Poor  Edward  is  dreadfully  upset.  We  must 
do  what  we  can.  I  blame  myself."  By  instinct 
she  used  those  words. 

"Blame  yourseK ?  Stuff !  That  young— ! "  He 
stopped. 

Thirza  said  quietly:  "No,  Bob;  of  the  two,  I'm 
sure  it  was  Noel;  she  was  desperate  that  day.  Don't 
you  remember  her  face  ?  Oh !  this  war !  It's  turned 
the  whole  world  upside  down.  That's  the  only  com- 
fort;  one  feels  that  nothing's  normal." 

Bob  Pierson  had  risen,  and  was  pacing  the  room. 
He  possessed  beyond  most  men  the  secret  of  hap- 
piness, for  he  was  always  absorbed  in  the  hving  mo- 
ment, to  the  point  of  unself-consciousness.  If  he 
were  eating  an  egg,  or  cutting  down  a  tree,  or  sitting 
on  a  Tribunal,  or  making  up  his  accounts,  or  plant- 


200  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

ing  potatoes,  or  looking  at  the  moon,  or  riding  his 
cob,  or  reading  the  Lessons,  there  was  not  a  part 
of  him  which  stood  aside  looking  on  to  see  how  he 
was  doing  it,  wondering  why  he  was  doing  it,  or 
not  doing  it  better.  He  grew  like  a  cork-tree,  and 
acted  like  a  sturdy  and  weU-natured  dog.  His  griefs, 
angers,  and  enjoyments  were  simple  as  a  child's, 
or  as  his  somewhat  noisy  slumbers.  They  were 
a  notably  well-suited  couple,  for  Thirza  had  the 
same  secret  of  happiness,  save  that  her  absorption 
in  the  moment  did  not — as  became  a  woman — ^pre- 
vent her  being  conscious  of  others;  indeed,  such 
formed  the  chief  subject  of  her  absorptions.  One 
might  say  that  they  neither  of  them  had  philosophy 
or  wisdom,  and  yet  they  were  as  wise  and  philosophic 
a  couple  as  one  could  meet  in  this  earthly  paradise 
of  the  self-conscious.  When  once  in  a  while  some 
literary  work  of  the  new  school  came  their  way, 
with  its  self-conscious  exhortations  to  complete  self- 
consciousness,  its  doctrine  of  pure  and  utter  selfish- 
ness, or  of  a  hopelessly  self-conscious  unselfishness, 
with  the  querulous  and  thin-blooded  passionateness 
of  its  young  heroes  and  heroines,  bent  on  notliing 
but  reaUsing  their  imrealisable  selves,  through  a 
sort  of  brain-spun  arrogance  and  sexuaHty — they 
would  read  it  with  their  habitual  absorption,  and 
put  it  down  with  a  sigh,  and  the  thought:  'Well, 
I  suppose  it's  very  clever,  and  interestuig,  but  I 
don't  know  what  they  want!'  Daily  life  to  these 
two  was  still  of  simpler  savour.  Bob  Pierson,  in- 
deed, was  something  of  a  hot-brained  simpleton, 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  201 

but  Thirza  certainly  was  not.  She  understood 
people's  thoughts  and  feelings  very  well;  but  what 
she  could  not  follow  was  that  utter  modem  pre- 
occupation with  self,  which  produced  in  some  folk 
such  perfect  disgnmtlement.  To  be  absorbed  in 
life — the  queer  endless  tissue  of  moments  and  things 
felt  and  done  and  said  and  made,  the  odd  inspiriting 
conjunctions  of  countless  people — ^was  natural  to 
these  two;  but  they  never  thought  whether  they 
were  absorbed  or  not,  or  had  any  particular  atti- 
tude to  Life  or  Death — a  great  blessing  to  them, 
at  the  epoch  in  which  they  were  living. 

Bob  Pierson,  then,  paced  the  room,  so  absorbed 
in  his  dismay  and  concern,  that  he  was  almost 
happy. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said,  "what  a  ghastly  thing! 
Nollie,  of  all  people.  I  feel  perfectly  wretched, 
Thirza;  wretched,  wretched  beyond  words."  But 
with  each  repetition  of  the  word  his  voice  grew 
cheerier,  and  Thirza  felt  that  he  was  already  over 
the  worst. 

"Your  coffee's  getting  cold  I"  she  said. 

Bob  Pierson  resumed  his  seat. 

"What  do  you  advise?    Shall  I  go  up,  heh?" 

Thirza,  who  had  already  thought  out  her  cam- 
paign, answered: 

"I  think  you'll  be  a  godsend  to  poor  Ted;  you'll 
keep  his  spirits  up.  Eve  won't  get  any  leave  till 
Easter;  and  I  can  be  quite  alone,  and  see  to  Nollie 
here.  The  servants  can  have  a  holiday;  Nurse  and 
I  will  run  the  house  together.    I  shall  enjoy  it." 


202  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

He  rose  again  at  that. 

"You're  a  good  woman,  Thirza!"  And  taking 
his  wife's  hand,  he  put  it  to  his  lips.  "There  isn't 
another  woman  like  you  in  the  world." 

Thirza's  eyes  shone.  "Pass  me  your  cup;  I'll 
give  you  some  fresh  coffee." 

It  was  decided  to  put  the  plan  into  operation  at 
mid-month,  and  she  bent  all  her  wits  to  instiUing 
into  her  husband  the  thought  that  a  baby  more 
or  less  was  no  great  matter  in  a  world  which  already 
contained  twelve  hundred  miUion  people.  But  he, 
with  a  man's  keener  sense  of  family  propriety,  could 
not  see  that  this  baby  would  be  the  same  as  any 
other  baby.  And  in  aU  those  days  he  was  hable 
to  come  up  to  her  at  any  moment,  and  pour  out  his 
soul.  "By  heaven!"  he  said  one  day,  "I  simply 
can't  get  used  to  it;  in  our  family!  And  Ted  a 
parson !    What  the  devil  shaU  we  do  with  it?" 

"The  same  as  we  did  with  our  own,  Bob;  if  NoUie 
will  let  us,  why  shouldn't  we  adopt  it  ?  It'U  be  some- 
thing to  take  my  thoughts  off  the  boys." 

"By  George !  That's  an  idea !  But  I  don't  know; 
Ted's  a  funny  fellow.  He'll  have  some  doctrine  of 
atonement,  or  something,  in  his  bonnet." 

'Oh,  bother!"  said  Thirza  with  some  asperity. 
'Yes,  yes;  Ted  wiU  have  to  toe  the  line." 

The  thought  of  sojourning  in  town  for  a  spell  was 
not  unpleasant  to  Bob  Pierson.  His  Tribunal  work 
was  over,  his  early  potatoes  in,  and  he  had  visions 
of  working  for  the  Country,  even  of  being  a  special 
constable,  and  dining  at  his  Club.    The  nearer  he 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  203 

was  to  the  front,  and  the  more  he  could  talk  about 
the  war,  the  greater  the  service  he  felt  he  would 
be  doing.  He  would  ask  for  a  job  where  his  brains 
would  be  of  use.  He  regretted  keenly  that  Thirza 
wouldn't  be  with  him;  a  long  separation  like  this 
would  be  a  great  trial.  And  he  would  sigh  and  run 
his  fingers  through  his  whiskers.  Still,  for  the  Coun- 
try, and  for  NoUie,  one  must  put  up  with  it !  Damna- 
tion, yes ! 

When  Thirza  finally  saw  him  into  the  train,  tears 
stood  in  the  eyes  of  both,  for  they  were  honestly 
attached,  and  knew  well  enough  that  this  job,  once 
taken  in  hand,  would  have  to  be  seen  through;  a 
three  months'  separation  at  least. 

"I  shall  write  every  day,"  he  said. 

"So  shaUI,  Bob." 

"You  won't  fret,  old  girl?" 

"Only  if  you  do." 

"I  shall  be  up  at  5.5,  and  she'll  be  down  at  4.50. 
Give  us  a  kiss,  and  damn  the  porters.  God  bless 
you !  I  suppose  she'd  mind  if  I  were  to  come  down 
now  and  then?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  would.  It's — it's — well,  you 
know." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  do."  And  he  really  did;  for  under- 
neath, he  had  true  dehcacy. 

Thirza's  last  words:  "You're  very  sweet,  Bob,'* 
remained  in  his  ears  all  the  way  to  Severn  Junc- 
tion, and  made  him  feel  quite  choky  in  the  throat. 

She  went  back  to  the  house,  which  seemed  gutted 
without  her  husband,  or  Eve,  or  the  boys,  or  her 


204  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

maids;  with  only  the  dogs  and  the  old  nurse  whom 
she  had  taken  into  confidence.  Even  in  that  shel- 
tered, wooded  valley  it  was  very  cold  this  winter. 
The  birds  hid  themselves,  not  one  flower  bloomed, 
and  the  red-brown  river  was  full  and  swift.  The 
sound  of  trees  being  cut  down  for  war  purposes  in 
the  wood  above  the  house  resounded  all  day  long 
in  the  frosty  air.  She  meant  to  do  the  cooking  her- 
self; and  for  the  rest  of  the  morning  and  early  after- 
noon she  concocted  nice  things,  and  thought  out 
how  she  herself  would  feel  if  she  were  Noel  and  Noel 
she,  so  as,  if  possible,  to  smooth  out  of  the  way  any- 
thing which  would  hurt  the  girl.  In  the  afternoon 
she  went  down  to  the  station  in  the  village  car,  the 
same  which  had  borne  Cyril  Morland  away  that 
July  night,  for  their  coachman  had  been  taken  for 
the  army,  and  the  horses  were  turned  out. 

Noel,  in  a  long,  fur-collared  coat,  looked  tired 
and  white,  but  calm — too  calm.  Her  face  seemed 
to  Thirza  to  be  collected,  as  it  were,  from  within, 
fined,  and  with  those  brooding  eyes,  more  beauti- 
ful. In  the  car  she  possessed  herself  of  the  girl's 
hand,  and  squeezed  it  hard;  this  was  the  only  al- 
lusion made  between  them  to  the  situation,  except 
Noel's  formal: 

"Thank  you  so  much.  Auntie,  for  having  me;  it's 
been  most  awfuUy  sweet  of  you  and  Uncle  Bob." 

"There's  no  one  in  the  house,  my  dear,  except 
old  Nurse.  I'm  afraid  it'll  be  very  dull  for  you; 
but  I  thought  I'd  teach  you  to  cook;  it's  rather 
useful." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  205 

The  smile  which  slipped  on  to  Noel's  face  gave 
Thirza  quite  a  turn. 

"That'U  be  splendid,"  she  said. 

She  had  assigned  the  girl  a  different  room,  and 
had  made  it  extraordinarily  cheerful  with  a  log  fire, 
chrysanthemums,  bright  copper  candlesticks,  warm- 
ing-pans, and  such  like. 

She  went  up  with  her  at  bedtime,  and  standing 
before  the  fire,  said: 

"You  know,  Nolhe,  I  absolutely  refuse  to  regard 
this  as  any  sort  of  tragedy.  To  bring  Ufe  into  the 
world  in  these  days,  no  matter  how,  ought  to  make 
anyone  happy.  I  only  wish  I  could  do  it  again, 
then  I  should  feel  some  use.  Good  night,  dear; 
and  if  you  want  anything,  knock  on  the  wall.  I'm 
next  door.  Bless  you !"  She  saw  that  the  girl  was 
greatly  moved,  underneath  her  pale  mask;  and 
went  out  astonished  at  her  niece's  powers  of  self- 
control. 

But  she  did  not  sleep  at  all  well;  for  in  imagina- 
tion, she  kept  on  seeing  Noel  turning  from  side  to 
side  in  the  big  bed,  and  those  great  eyes  of  hers  star- 
ing at  the  dark. 


The  meeting  of  the  brothers  Pierson  took  place 
at  the  dinner-hour,  and  was  characterised  by  a  truly 
English  lack  of  display.  They  were  so  extremely 
different,  and  had  been  together  so  little  since  early 
days  in  their  old  Buckinghamshire  home,  that  they 
were   practically   strangers,    with   just   the   potent 


2o6  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

link  of  far-distant  memories  in  common.  It  was 
of  these  they  talked,  and  about  the  war.  On  this 
subject  they  agreed  in  the  large,  and  differed  in 
the  narrow.  For  instance,  both  thought  they  knew 
about  Germany  and  other  countries,  and  neither 
of  course  had  any  real  knowledge  whatever  of  any 
country  outside  their  own;  for,  though  both  had 
passed  through  considerable  tracts  of  foreign  ground 
at  one  time  or  another,  they  had  never  remarked 
anything  except  its  surface,  its  churches,  and  its 
sunsets.  Again,  both  assumed  that  they  were  demo- 
crats, but  neither  knew  the  meaning  of  the  word, 
or  felt  that  the  working  man  could  be  really  trusted; 
and  both  revered  Church  and  King.  Both  disliked 
conscription,  but  considered  it  necessary.  Both 
favoured  Home  Rule  for  Ireland,  but  neither  thought 
it  possible  to  grant  it.  Both  wished  for  the  war  to 
end,  but  were  for  prosecuting  it  to  Victory,  and 
neither  knew  what  they  meant  by  that  word.  So 
much  for  the  large.  On  the  narrower  issues,  such 
as  strategy,  and  the  personality  of  their  country's 
leaders,  they  were  opposed.  Edward  was  a  West- 
erner, Robert  an  Easterner,  as  was  natural  in  one 
who  had  lived  twenty-five  years  in  Ceylon.  Edward 
favoured  the  fallen  government,  Robert  the  risen. 
Neither  had  any  particular  reasons  for  their  parti- 
sanship except  what  he  had  read  in  the  journals. 
After  all — what  other  reasons  could  they  have  had  ? 
Edward  dishked  the  Harmsworth  Press;  Robert 
thought  it  was  doing  good.  Robert  was  explosive, 
and  rather  vague;    Edward  dreamy,  and  a  little 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  207 

didactic.  Robert  thought  poor  Ted  looking  like  a 
ghost;  Edward  thought  poor  Bob  looking  Hke  the 
setting  sun.  Their  faces  were  indeed  as  curiously 
contrasted  as  their  views  and  voices;  the  pale-dark, 
hoUowed,  narrow  face  of  Edward,  with  its  short, 
pointed  beard,  and  the  red-skinned,  broad,  full, 
wiiiskered  face  of  Robert.  They  parted  for  the 
night  with  an  affectionate  hand-clasp. 

So  began  a  queer  partnership  which  consisted, 
as  the  days  went  on,  of  half  an  hour's  companion- 
ship at  breakfast,  each  reading  the  paper;  and  of 
dinner  together  perhaps  three  times  a  week.  Each 
thought  his  brother  very  odd,  but  continued  to  hold 
the  highest  opinion  of  him.  And,  behind  it  all,  the 
deep  tribal  sense  that  they  stood  together  in  trouble, 
grew.  But  of  that  trouble  they  never  spoke,  though 
not  seldom  Robert  would  lower  his  journal,  and 
above  the  glasses  perched  on  his  well-shaped  nose, 
contemplate  his  brother,  and  a  httle  frown  of  sym- 
pathy would  ridge  his  forehead  between  his  bushy 
eyebrows.  And  once  in  a  way  he  would  catch  Ed- 
ward's eyes  coming  off  duty  from  his  journal,  to 
look,  not  at  his  brother,  but  at — the  skeleton;  when 
that  happened,  Robert  would  adjust  his  glasses 
hastily,  damn  the  newspaper  t}^e,  and  apologise 
to  Edward  for  swearing.  And  he  would  think: 
*Poor  Ted!  He  ought  to  drink  port,  and — and 
enjoy  himself,  and  forget  it.  What  a  pity  he's  a 
parson ! ' 

In  his  letters  to  Thirza  he  would  deplore  Edward's 
asceticism.     "He  eats  nothing,  he  drinks  nothing, 


2o8  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

he  smokes  a  miserable  cigarette  once  in  a  blue  moon. 
He's  as  lonely  as  a  coot;  it's  a  thousand  pities  he 
ever  lost  his  wife.  I  expect  to  see  his  wings  sprout 
any  day;  but — dash  it  all! — I  don't  beheve  he's 
got  the  flesh  to  grow  them  on.  Send  him  up  some 
clotted  cream;  I'll  see  if  I  can  get  him  to  eat  it." 
When  the  cream  came,  he  got  Edward  to  eat  some 
the  first  morning,  and  at  tea  time  found  that  he 
had  finished  it  himself.  "We  never  talk  about  Nol- 
He,"  he  wrote,  "I'm  always  meaning  to  have  it  out 
with  him  and  tell  him  to  buck  up,  but  when  it  comes 
to  the  point  I  dry  up;  because,  after  all,  I  feel  it 
too;  it  sticks  in  my  gizzard  horribly.  We  Piersons 
are  pretty  old,  and  we've  always  been  respectable, 
ever  since  St.  Bartholomew,  when  that  Huguenot 
chap  came  over  and  founded  us.  The  only  black 
sheep  I  ever  heard  of  is  Cousin  Leila.  By  the  way, 
I  saw  her  the  other  day;  she  came  round  here  to 
see  Ted.  I  remember  going  to  stay  with  her  and 
her  first  husband,  young  Fane,  at  Simla,  when  I 
was  coming  home,  just  before  we  were  married. 
Phew!  That  was  a  queer  menage;  all  the  young 
chaps  fluttering  round  her,  and  young  Fane  looking 
like  a  cynical  ghost.  Even  now  she  can't  help  setting 
her  cap  a  httle  at  Ted,  and  he  swallows  her  whole; 
thinks  her  a  devoted  creature  reformed  to  the  nines 
with  her  hospital  and  all  that.  Poor  old  Ted;  he 
is  the  most  dreamy  chap  that  ever  was." 

"We  have  had  Gratian  and  her  husband  up  for 
the  week-end,"  he  wrote  a  little  later;  "I  don't  like 
her  so  well  as  Nollie;    too  serious  and  downright 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  209 

for  me.  Her  husband  seems  a  sensible  fellow,  though ; 
but  the  devil  of  a  free-thinker.  He  and  poor  Ted  are 
like  cat  and  dog.  We  had  Leila  in  to  dinner  again  on 
Saturday,  and  a  man  called  Fort  came  too.  She's 
sweet  on  him,  I  could  see  with  half  an  eye,  but  poor 
old  Ted  can't.  The  doctor  and  Ted  talked  up  hill 
and  down  dale.  The  doctor  said  a  thing  which  struck 
me.  '  What  divides  us  from  the  beasts  ?  Will  power : 
nothing  else.  What's  this  war,  really,  but  a  death 
carnival  of  proof  that  man's  will  is  invincible?'  I 
stuck  it  down  to  tell  you,  when  I  got  upstairs.  He's 
a  clever  fellow.  I  believe  in  God,  as  you  know,  but 
I  must  say  when  it  comes  to  an  argument,  poor  old 
Ted  does  seem  a  bit  weak,  with  his:  *  We're  told 
this,'  and  *  We're  told  that.'  Nobody  mentioned 
Nollie.  I  must  have  the  whole  thing  out  with  Ted; 
we  must  know  how  to  act  when  it's  all  over." 

But  not  till  the  middle  of  March,  when  the  brothers 
had  been  sitting  opposite  each  other  at  meals  for 
two  months,  was  the  subject  broached  between 
them,  and  then  not  by  Robert.  Edward  was  stand- 
ing by  the  hearth  after  dinner,  in  his  famihar  atti- 
tude, one  foot  on  the  fender,  one  hand  grasping 
the  mantel-shelf,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  flames, 
when  he  said:  "I've  never  asked  your  forgiveness. 
Bob." 

Robert,  who  was  Hngering  at  the  table  over  his 
glass  of  port,  started,  looked  at  Edward's  back  in 
its  parson's  coat,  and  answered: 

"My  dear  old  chap!" 

"It  has  been  very  difficult  to  speak  of  this." 


2IO  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"Of  course,  of  course !"  And  there  was  a  silence, 
while  Robert's  eyes  travelled  round  the  walls  for 
inspiration.  They  encountered  only  the  effigies  of 
past  Piersons — very  oily  works,  and  fell  back  on 
the  dining-table.  Edward  went  on  speaking  to 
the  fire: 

"It  still  seems  to  me  incredible;  yet  in  a  few  weeks 
it  will  be.  Day  and  night  I  think  of  what  it's  my 
duty  to  do." 

"Nothing!"  ejaculated  Robert.  "Leave  the 
baby  with  Thirza;  we'll  take  care  of  it,  and  when 
Nolhe's  fit,  let  her  go  back  to  work  in  a  hospital 
again.  She'll  soon  get  over  it."  He  saw  his  brother 
shake  his  head,  and  thought:  'Ah !  yes;  now  there's 
going  to  be  some  d — d  conscientious  comphcation.' 

Edward  turned  round  on  him:  "That  is  very 
sweet  of  you  both,  but  it  would  be  wrong  and 
cowardly  for  me  to  allow  it." 

The  resentment  which  springs  up  in  fathers  when 
other  fathers  dispose  of  young  Uves,  rose  in  Robert. 

"Dash  it  all,  my  dear  Ted,  that's  for  NolHe  to 
say.    She's  a  woman  now,  remember." 

A  smile  went  straying  about  in  the  shadows  of 
his  brother's  face.  "A  woman?  Little  NoJHe! 
Bob,  I've  made  a  terrible  mess  of  it  with  my  girls." 
He  hid  his  lips  with  his  hand,  and  turned  again  to 
the  flames.  Robert  felt  a  lump  in  his  throat.  "Oh ! 
Hang  it,  old  boy,  I  don't  think  that.  What  else 
could  you  have  done  ?  You  take  too  much  on  your- 
self. After  all,  they're  fine  girls.  I'm  sure  Nollie's 
a  darhng.    It's  these  modem  notions,  and  this  war. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  211 

Cheer  up  T  It'll  all  dry  straight."  He  went  up  to 
his  brother  and  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Ed- 
ward seemed  to  stiffen  under  that  touch. 

"Nothing  comes  straight,"  he  said,  "unless  it's 
faced;  you  know  that,  Bob." 

Robert's  face  was  a  study  at  that  moment.  His 
cheeks  filled  and  collapsed  again  Hke  a  dog's  when 
it  has  been  rebuked.  His  colour  deepened,  and  he 
rattled  some  money  in  a  trouser  pocket. 

"Something  in  that,  of  course,"  he  said  gruffly. 
"All  the  same,  the  decision's  with  Nohie.  We'll 
see  what  Thirza  says.  Anyway,  there's  no  hurry. 
It's  a  thousand  pities  you're  a  parson;  the  trouble's 
enough  without  that." 

Edward  shook  his  head .  ' '  My  position  is  nothing ; 
it's  the  thought  of  my  child,  my  wife's  child.  It's 
sheer  pride;  and  I  can't  subdue  it.  I  can't  fight 
it  down,    God  forgive  me,  I  rebel." 

And  Robert  thought:  'By  George,  he  does  take 
it  to  heart  1  Well,  so  should  I !  I  do,  as  it  is ! '  He 
took  out  his  pipe,  and  filled  it,  pushing  the  tobacco 
down  and  down. 

"I'm  not  a  man  of  the  world,"  he  heard  his  brother 
say;  "I'm  out  of  touch  with  many  things.  It's  al- 
most unbearable  to  me  to  feel  that  I'm  joined  with 
the  world,  now,  to  condemn  my  own  daughter;  not 
for  their  reasons,  perhaps — I  don't  know;  I  hope 
not,  but  still,  I'm  against  her." 

Robert  fit  his  pipe. 

"Steady,  old  man!"  he  said.  "It's  a  misfortune. 
But  if  I  were  you  I  should  feel:   'She's  done  a  wild^, 


212  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

silly  thing,  but,  hang  it,  if  anybody  says  a  word 
against  her,  I'll  wring  his  neck.'  And  what's  more, 
you'll  feel  much  the  same,  when  it  comes  to  the 
point."  He  emitted  a  huge  puff  of  smoke,  which 
obscured  his  brother's  face,  and  the  blood,  buzzing  in 
his  temples,  seemed  to  thicken  the  sound  of  Edward's 
voice. 

''I  don't  know;  I've  tried  to  see  clearly.  I  have 
prayed  to  be  shown  what  her  duty  is,  and  mine. 
It  seems  to  me  there  can  be  no  peace  for  her  until 
she  has  atoned,  by  open  suffering;  that  the  world's 
judgment  is  her  cross,  and  she  must  bear  it;  espe- 
cially in  these  days,  when  all  the  world  is  facing 
suffering  so  nobly.  And  then  it  seems  so  hard — 
so  bitter;  my  poor  Httle  Noilie !" 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the  gurghng 
of  Robert's  pipe,  till  he  said  abruptly: 

*'I  don't  follow  you,  Ted;  no,  I  don't.  I  think 
a  man  should  screen  his  children  all  he  can.  Talk 
to  her  as  you  like,  but  don't  let  the  world  do  it.  Dash 
it,  the  world's  a  rotten  gabbUng  place.  I  call  my- 
self a  man  of  the  world,  but  when  it  comes  to  private 
matters — ^well,  then  I  draw  the  line.  It  seems  to 
me — ^it  seems  to  me  inhuman.  What  does  George 
Laird  think  about  it?  He's  a  knowing  chap.  I 
suppose  you've — no,  I  suppose  you  haven't — " 
For  a  peculiar  smile  had  come  on  Edward's  face. 

''No,"  he  said,  ''I  should  hardly  ask  George 
Laird's  opinion." 

And  Robert  realised  suddenly  the  stubborn  lone- 
liness of  that  thin  black  figure,  whose  fingers  were 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  213 

playing  with  a  little  gold  cross.  'By  Jove!'  he 
thought,  'I  beUeve  old  Ted's  like  one  of  those 
Eastern  chaps  who  go  into  lonely  places.  He's  got 
himself  surrounded  by  visions  of  things  that  aren't 
there.  He  hves  in  unreality — something  we  can't 
understand.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  heard 
voices,  like — who  was  it  ?  Tt,  tt !  What  a  pity ! ' 
Ted  was  deceptive.  He  was  gentle  and  all  that,  a 
gentleman  of  course,  and  that  disguised  him;  but 
underneath,  what  was  there — a  regular  ascetic,  a 
fakir !  And  a  sense  of  bewilderment,  of  dealing 
with  something  which  he  could  not  grasp,  beset 
Bob  Pierson,  so  that  he  went  back  to  the  table  and 
sat  down  again  beside  his  port. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said  rather  gruffly,  "that 
the  chicken  had  better  be  hatched  before  we  count 
it."  And  then,  sorry  for  liis  brusqueness,  emptied 
his  glass.  As  the  fluid  passed  over  his  palate,  he 
thought:  'Poor  old  Ted  !  He  doesn't  even  drink — 
hasn't  a  pleasure  in  life,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  except 
doing  his  duty,  and  doesn't  even  seem  to  know  what 
that  is.  There  aren't  many  like  him — luckily  !  And 
yet  I  love  him — pathetic  chap  ! ' 

The  'pathetic  chap'  was  still  staring  at  the  flames. 


And  at  this  very  hour,  when  the  brothers  were 
talking — for  thought  and  feeUng  do  pass  mysteriously 
over  the  invisible  wires  of  space — Cyril  Morland's 
son  was  being  bom  of  Noel,  a  little  before  his  time. 


'\ 


PART  III 


Down  by  the  River  Wye,  among  plum-trees  in 
blossom,  Noel  had  laid  her  baby  in  a  hammock, 
and  stood  reading  a  letter: 


"My  dearest  Nollie, 

"Now  that  you  are  strong  again,  I  feel  that  I  must  put 
before  you  my  feeling  as  to  your  duty  in  this  crisis  of  your 
life.  Your  aunt  and  uncle  have  made  the  most  kind  and 
generous  offer  to  adopt  your  little  boy.  I  have  known  that 
this  was  in  their  minds  for  some  time,  and  have  thought  it 
over  day  and  night  for  weeks.  In  the  worldly  sense  it  would 
be  the  best  thing,  no  doubt.  But  this  is  a  spiritual  matter. 
The  future  of  our  souls  depends  on  how  we  meet  the  conse- 
quences of  our  conduct.  And  painful,  dreadful,  indeed,  as 
they  must  be,  I  am  driven  to  feel  that  you  can  only  reach 
true  peace  by  facing  them  in  a  spirit  of  brave  humihty,  I 
want  you  to  think  and  think — till  you  arrive  at  a  certainty 
which  satisfies  your  conscience.  If  you  decide,  as  I  trust 
you  will,  to  come  back  to  me  here  with  your  boy,  I  shall  do 
all  in  my  power  to  make  you  happy  while  we  face  the  future 
together.  To  do  as  your  aunt  and  uncle  in  their  kindness 
wish,  would,  I  am  sore  afraid,  end  in  depriving  you  of  the 
inner  strength  and  happiness  which  God  only  gives  to  those 
who  do  their  duty  and  try  courageously  to  repair  their  er- 
rors.   I  have  confidence  in  you,  my  dear  child. 

"  Ever  your  most  loving  father, 
"Edward  Pierson," 
217 


2i8  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

She  read  it  through  a  second  time,  and  looked  at 
her  baby.  Daddy  seemed  to  think  that  she  might 
be  willing  to  part  from  this  wonderful  creature! 
Sunlight  fell  through  the  plum  blossom,  in  an  extra 
patchwork  quilt  over  the  bundle  lying  there,  touched 
the  baby's  nose  and  mouth,  so  that  he  gave  a  funny 
little  sneeze.  Noel  laughed,  and  put  her  lips  close 
to  his  face.  'Give  you  up !'  she  thought:  'Oh,  no ! 
And  I'm  gomg  to  be  happy  too.  They  shan't  stop 
me.  And  I  shan't  have  you  baptised;  but  I  shall 
call  you  Ted !' 

In  answer  to  the  letter  she  said  simply  that  she 
was  coming  up;  and  a  week  later  she  went,  to  the 
dismay  of  her  uncle  and  aunt.  The  old  nurse  went 
too.  Everything  had  hitherto  been  so  carefully 
watched  and  guarded  against  by  Thirza,  that  Noel 
did  not  reaUy  come  face  to  face  with  her  position 
till  she  reached  home. 

Gratian,  who  had  managed  to  get  transferred  to 
a  London  Hospital,  was  now  living  at  home.  She 
had  provided  the  house  with  new  maids  against 
her  sister's  return;  and  though  it  was  a  rehef  to 
Noel  not  to  meet  those  old  familiars,  it  was  a  strain 
to  encounter  the  stolid  curiosity  of  new  faces.  That 
morning  before  she  left  Kestrel,  her  aunt  had  come 
into  her  room  while  she  was  dressing,  taken  her 
left  hand  and  sHpped  a  little  gold  band  on  to  its 
third  finger. 

"To  please  me,  NoUie,  now  that  you're  going, 
just  for  the  foolish,  who  know  nothing  about 
you." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  219 

Noel  had  suffered  it  with  the  thought:  'It's  all 
very  silly ! '  But  now,  when  the  new  maid  was  pour- 
ing out  her  hot  water,  she  was  suddenly  aware  of 
the  girl's  round  blue  eyes  wandering,  as  it  were, 
mechanically  to  her  hand.  This  Httle  hoop  of  gold, 
then,  had  an  awful  power !  A  rush  of  disgust  cam.e 
over  her.  All  life  seemed  suddenly  wretched,  a 
thing  of  forms  and  sham.  Everybody  then  would 
look  at  that  little  ring;  and  she  would  be  a  coward, 
saving  herself  from  them!  When  she  was  alone 
again,  she  sHpped  it  off,  and  laid  it  on  the  wash- 
stand,  where  the  sunlight  fell.  Only  this  little  shin- 
ing band  of  metal,  this  Httle  yellow  ring,  stood  be- 
tween her  and  the  world's  scorn  and  hostihty !  Her 
Hps  trembled.  She  took  up  the  ring,  and  wxnt  to 
the  open  window,  to  throw  it  out.  But  she  did  not, 
uncertain  and  unhappy — half  realising  the  cruelty 
of  life.  A  knock  at  the  door  sent  her  flying  back 
to  the  wash-stand.    The  visitor  was  Gratian. 

"I've  been  looking  at  him,"  she  said  softly;  "he's 
like  you,  Nollie,  except  for  his  nose." 

"He's  hardly  got  one  yet.  But  aren't  his  eyes 
inteUigent?  I  think  they're  wonderful."  She  held 
up  the  ring:  "What  shall  I  do  about  this,  Gratian ? " 

Gratian  flushed.  "Wear  it.  I  don't  see  why 
outsiders  should  know.  For  the  sake  of  Dad  I  think 
you  ought.    There's  the  parish." 

Noel  sHpped  the  ring  back  on  to  her  finger. 
"Would  you?'' 

"I  can't  tell.    I  think  I  would." 

Noel  laughed  suddenly.     "I'm  going  to  get  c>ti- 


220  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

ical;  I  can  feel  it  in  my  bones.  How  is  Daddy  look- 
ing?" 

"Very  thin;  Mr.  Lauder  is  back  again  from  the 
Front  for  a  bit,  and  taking  some  of  the  work  now." 

"Do  I  hurt  him  very  much  stiU?" 

"He's  awfully  pleased  that  you've  come.  He's 
as  sweet  as  he  can  be  about  you." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Noel,  "that's  what's  dreadful. 
I'm  glad  he  wasn't  in  when  I  came.  Has  he  told 
anyone?" 

Gratian  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  think  anybody 
knows;  unless — perhaps  Captain  Fort.  He  came 
in  again  the  other  night,  and  somehow " 

Noel  flushed.  "Leila!"  she  said  enigmatically. 
"Have  you  seen  her?" 

"I  went  to  her  flat  last  week  with  Dad — ^he  likes 
her." 

"Delilah  is  her  real  name,  you  know.  All  men 
like  her.    And  Captain  Fort  is  her  lover." 

Gratian  gasped.  Noel  would  say  things  some- 
times which  made  her  feel  the  younger  of  the 
two. 

"Of  course  he  is,"  went  on  Noel  in  a  hard  voice. 
"She  has  no  men  friends;  her  sort  never  have, 
only  lovers.  Why  do  you  think  he  knows  about 
me?" 

"When  he  asked  after  you  he  looked " 

"Yes;  I've  seen  him  look  hke  that  when  he's 
sorry  for  anything.  I  don't  care.  Has  Monsieur 
Lavendie  been  in  lately?" 

"Yes;  he  looks  awfully  unhappy." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  221 

"His  wife  drugs." 

"Oh,  Nollie!    How  do  you  know?" 

"I  saw  her  once;  I'm  sure  she  does;  there  was 
a  smell;  and  she's  got  wandering  eyes  that  go  all 
fixed  and  glassy.  He  can  paint  me  now,  if  he  likes. 
I  wouldn't  let  him  before.    Does  he  know?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"He  knows  there  was  something;  he's  got  second 
sight,  I  think.  But  I  mind  him  less  than  anybody. 
Is  his  picture  of  Daddy  good  ?  " 

"Very  powerful,  but  it  hurts,  somehow." 

"Let's  go  down  and  see  it." 

The  picture  was  hung  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
its  intense  modernity  made  that  old-fashioned  room 
seem  Ufeless  and  strange.  The  black  figure,  with 
long  pale  fingers  touching  the  paler  piano  keys, 
had  a  frightening  actuahty.  The  face,  three-quarters 
full,  was  raised  as  if  for  inspiration,  and  the  eyes 
rested,  dreamy  and  imseeing,  on  the  face  of  a  girl 
painted  and  hung  on  a  background  of  wall  above 
the  piano. 

"It's  the  face  of  that  girl,"  said  Gratian,  when 
they  had  looked  at  the  picture  for  some  time  in 
silence. 

"No,"  said  Noel,  "it's  the  look  in  his  eyes." 

"But  why  did  he  choose  such  a  horrid,  common 
girl?  Isn't  she  fearfully  alive,  though?  She  looks 
as  if  she  were  sa>dng:   "Cheer  oh !" 

Noel  turned  her  back  on  the  picture. 

"She  is,  it's  awfully  pathetic,  I  think.  It  makes 
me  want  to  cry.    Poor  Daddy!" 


222  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"It's  a  libel,"  said  Gratian  stubbornly. 

Noel  shook  her  head.  ''No.  That's  what  hurts. 
He  isn't  quite — quite  all  there.  I  don't  want  to  look 
at  it.    Will  he  be  coming  in  soon?" 

Gratian  took  her  arm,  and  pressed  it  hard. 
"Would  you  like  me  at  dinner  or  not;  I  can  easily 
be  out?" 

Noel  shook  her  head.  "It's  no  good  to  funk  it. 
He  wanted  me,  and  now  he's  got  me.  Oh!  why 
did  he?    It'll  be  so  awful  for  him.'^ 

Gratian  sighed.  "I've  tried  my  best,  but  he  al- 
ways said:  'I've  thought  so  long  about  it  all  that 
I  can't  think  any  longer.  I  can  only  feel  the  braver 
course  is  the  best.  When  things  are  bravely  and 
humbly  met,  there  wiU  be  charity  and  forgiveness.'" 

"There  wonH^''  said  Noel,  "Daddy's  a  saint,  and 
he  doesn't  see." 

"Yes,  he  is  a  saint,  and  I  wish  I  were  better  to 
him.  But  one  must  think  for  oneself — one  simply 
must,  I  can't  beheve  as  he  does,  any  more;  can 
you,  NoUie  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  When  I  was  going  through  it, 
I  prayed;  but  I  don't  know  whether  I  really  be- 
lieved. I  don't  think  I  mind  much  about  that,  one 
way  or  the  other." 

"I  mind  terribly,"  said  Gratian,  "I  want  the 
truth." 

I  don't  know  what  I  want,"  said  Noel  slowly, 
except  that  sometimes  I  want— Hfe;   awfully." 
And  the  two  sisters  were  silent,  looking  at  each 
other  with  a  sort  of  wonder. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  223 

Noel  had  a  fancy  to  put  on  a  bright-coloured 
blue  frock  that  evening,  and  at  her  neck  she  hung 
a  Breton  cross  of  old  paste,  which  had  belonged 
to  her  mother.  When  she  had  finished  dressing 
she  went  into  the  nursery  and  stood  by  the  baby's 
cot.  The  old  nurse  who  was  sitting  there  beside 
him,  got  up  at  once  and  said: 

"He's  sleeping  beautiful — the  lamb.  I'll  go  down 
and  get  a  cup  o'  tea,  and  come  up  ma'am,  when 
the  gong  goes."  In  the  way  pecuhar  to  those  who 
have  never  to  initiate,  but  only  to  support  positions 
in  which  they  are  placed  by  others,  she  had  adopted 
for  herself  the  theory  that  Noel  was  a  real  war- 
widow.  She  knew  the  truth  perfectly;  for  she  had 
watched  that  hurried  Httle  romance  at  Kestrel, 
but  by  dint  of  charity  and  blurred  meditations  it 
was  easy  for  her  to  imagine  the  marriage  ceremony 
which  would  and  should  have  taken  place;  and 
she  was  zealous  that  other  people  should  imagine 
it  too.  It  was  so  much  more  regular  and  natural 
like  that,  and  'her'  baby  invested  with  his  proper 
dignity.  She  went  downstairs  to  get  a  ''cup  o'  tea," 
thinking:  'A  picture  they  make — that  they  do, 
bless  his  Httle  heart;  and  his  pretty  little  mother — 
no  more  than  a  child,  all  said  and  done.' 

Noel  had  been  standing  there  some  minutes  in 
the  failing  hght,  absorbed  in  the  face  of  the  sleeping 
baby,  when  a  sound  made  her  raise  her  eyes,  and 
she  saw  in  a  mirror  the  reflection  of  her  father's 


224  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

dark  figure  by  the  door.  She  could  hear  him  breath- 
ing as  if  the  ascent  of  the  stairs  had  tried  him;  and 
moving  to  the  head  of  the  cot,  she  rested  her  hand 
on  it,  and  turned  her  face  towards  him.  He  came 
up  and  stood  beside  her,  looking  silently  down  at 
the  baby.  She  saw  him  make  the  sign  of  the  Cross 
above  it,  and  the  movement  of  his  Hps  in  prayer. 
Love  for  her  father,  and  rebellion  against  this  in- 
tercession for  her  perfect  baby  fought  so  hard  in 
the  girl's  heart  that  she  felt  suffocated,  and  glad 
of  the  dark,  so  that  he  could  not  see  her  eyes.  Then 
he  took  her  hand  and  put  it  to  his  Hps,  but  still  with- 
out a  word;  and  for  the  life  of  her  she  could  not 
speak  either.  In  silence,  he  kissed  her  forehead; 
and  there  mounted  in  Noel  a  sudden  passion  of 
longing  to  show  him  her  pride  and  love  for  her  baby. 
She  put  her  finger  down  and  touched  one  of  his 
hands.  The  tiny  sleeping  fingers  uncurled  and, 
like  some  little  sea  anemone,  clutched  round  it. 
She  heard  her  father  draw  his  breath  in;  saw  him 
turn  away  quickly,  silently,  and  go  out.  And  she 
stayed,  hardly  breathing,  with  the  hand  of  her  baby 
squeezing  her  finger. 


n 


When  Edward  Pierson,  afraid  of  his  own  emo- 
tion, left  the  twiht  nursery,  he  slipped  into  his 
own  room  and  fell  on  his  knees  beside  his  bed,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  vision  he  had  seen.  That  young  figure 
in  the  Madonna's  blue,  with  the  halo  of  bright  hair; 
the  sleeping  babe  in  the  fine  dusk;  the  silence,  the 
adoration  in  that  white  room  !  He  saw,  too,  a  vision 
of  the  past,  when  Noel  herself  had  been  the  sleeping 
babe  within  her  mother's  arm,  and  he  had  stood 
beside  them,  wondering  and  giving  praise.  It  passed 
with  its  other- worldliness  and  the  fine  holiness  which 
belongs  to  beauty,  passed  and  left  the  tormenting 
reahsm  of  fife.  Ah  !  to  Hve  with  only  the  inner  mean- 
ing, spiritual  and  beautified,  in  a  rare  wonderment 
such  as  he  had  experienced  just  now ! 

His  alarum  clock  ticked  out  the  seconds  while 
he  knelt  in  his  narrow,  monkish  little  room — ticked 
the  evening  hour  away  into  darkness.  And  still  he 
knelt,  dreading  to  come  back  into  it  all,  to  face  the 
world's  eyes,  and  the  sound  of  the  world's  tongue, 
and  the  touch  of  the  rough,  the  gross,  the  unseemly. 
How  could  he  guard  his  beloved  child?  How  pre- 
serve that  vision  in  her  life,  in  her  spirit,  about  to 
enter   such   cold,   rough   waters?     But   the   gong 

225 


226  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

sounded;   he  got  up,  and,  bathing  his  face  in  cold 
water,  to  brace  himself,  went  downstairs. 

But  this  first  family  moment,  which  all  had 
dreaded,  was  reheved,  as  dreaded  moments  so  often 
are,  by  the  imexpected  appearance  of  the  Belgian 
painter.  He  had  a  general  iuvitation,  of  which  he 
often  availed  himself;  but  he  was  so  silent,  and  his 
thin,  beardless  face,  which  seemed  all  eyes  and  brow, 
so  mournful,  that  all  three  felt  in  the  presence  of  a 
sorrow  deeper  even  than  their  own  family  grief. 
During  the  meal  he  gazed  for  the  most  part  silently 
at  Noel.  Once  he  said:  ''You  will  let  me  paint 
you  now,  mademoiselle,  I  hope  ?  "  and  his  face  bright- 
ened a  little  for  the  first  time,  when  she  nodded. 
There  was  never  much  talk  when  he  came,  for  any 
depth  of  discussion,  even  of  art,  brought  out  at 
once  too  wide  a  difference.  And  Pierson  could  never 
avoid  a  vague  irritation  mth  one  who  clearly  had 
spirituality,  but  of  a  sort  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand. After  dinner  he  excused  himself,  and  went 
off  to  his  study.  Monsieur  would  be  happier  alone 
with  the  two  girls !  Gratian,  too,  got  up.  She  had 
remembered  Noel's  words:  "I  mind  him  less  than 
anybody."  It  was  a  chance  for  NoUie  to  break  the 
ice. 

"I  have  not  seen  you  for  a  long  time,  tnade- 
moiselle,^'  said  the  painter,  when  they  were  alone. 

Noel  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  empty  drawing- 
room  hearth,  with  her  arms  stretched  out  as  if  there 
had  been  a  fire  there. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  227 

"I've  been  away.  How  are  you  going  to  paint 
me,  monsieur!'* 

"In  that  dress,  fnadetrwiselle;  just  as  you  are  now, 
warming  yourself  at  the  fire  of  hfe." 

"But  it  isn't  there." 

"Yes,  fires  soon  go  out.  Mademoiselle,  will  you 
come  and  see  my  wife?    She  is  ill." 

"Now?"  asked  Noel,  startled. 

"Yes,  now.  She  is  really  ill,  and  I  have  no  one 
there.  That  is  what  I  came  to  ask  of  your  sister; 
but  now  you  are  here,  it's  even  better.  She  Hkes 
you." 

Noel  got  up.  "Wait  one  minute !"  she  said,  and 
ran  upstairs.  Her  baby  was  asleep,  and  the  old 
nurse  dozing.  Putting  on  a  cloak  and  cap  of  grey 
rabbit's  fur,  she  ran  down  again  to  the  hall  where 
the  painter  was  waiting;  and  they  went  out  to- 
gether. 

"I  do  not  know  if  I  am  to  blame,"  he  said,  "my 
wife  has  been  no  real  wife  to  me  since  she  knew  I 
had  a  mistress  and  was  no  real  husband  to  her." 

Noel  stared  round  at  his  face  which  was  hghted 
by  a  queer  smile. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  "from  that  has  come  her 
tragedy.  But  she  should  have  known  before  I 
married  her.  Nothing  was  concealed.  Bon  Dieu! 
she  should  have  known !  Why  cannot  a  woman  see 
things  as  they  are?  My  mistress,  mademoiselle,  is 
not  a  thing  of  flesh.  It  is  my  art.  It  has  always 
been  first  with  me,  and  always  wiU.  She  has  never 
accepted  that — she  is  incapable  of  accepting  it.  I 
am  sorry  for  her.    But  what  would  you?    I  was  a 


228  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

fool  to  marry  her.  Chere  mademoiselle,  no  troubles 
are  anything  beside  the  trouble  which  goes  on  day 
and  night,  meal  after  meal,  year  after  year,  between 
two  people  who  should  never  have  married,  because 
one  loves  too  much  and  requires  all,  and  the  other 
loves  not  at  all — ^no,  not  at  all,  now,  it  is  long  dead — 
and  can  give  but  little." 

"Can't  you  separate?"  asked  Noel,  wondering. 

"It  is  hard  to  separate  from  one  who  craves  for 
you  as  she  craves  her  drugs — yes,  she  takes  drugs 
now,  mademoiselle.  It  is  impossible  for  one  who 
has  any  compassion  in  his  soul.  Besides,  what  would 
she  do?  We  Hve  from  hand  to  mouth,  in  a  strange 
land.  She  has  no  friends  here,  not  one.  How  could 
I  leave  her  while  this  war  lasts  ?  As  weU  could  two 
persons  on  a  desert  island  separate.  She  is  kiUing 
herself,  too,  with  these  drugs,  and  I  cannot  stop 
her." 

"Poor  madame/"  murmured  Noel.  "Poor  mon- 
sieur!" 

The  painter  suddenly  drew  his  hand  across  his 
eyes. 

"I  cannot  change  my  nature,"  he  said  in  a  stifled 
voice,  "nor  she  hers.  So  we  go  on.  But  life  will 
stop  suddenly  some  day  for  one  of  us.  After  all, 
it  is  much  worse  for  her  than  for  me.  Enter,  made- 
moiselle. Do  not  tell  her  I  am  going  to  paint  you; 
she  likes  you,  because  you  refused  to  let  me." 

Noel  went  up  the  stairs,  shuddering;  she  had 
been  there  once  before,  and  remembered  that  sickly 
scent  of  drugs.    On  the  third  floor  they  entered  a 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  229 

small  sitting-room  whose  walls  were  covered  with 
paintings  and  drawings;  from  one  corner  a  triangular 
stack  of  canvases  jutted  out.  There  was  little  furni- 
ture save  an  old  red  sofa,  and  on  this  was  seated 
a  stoutish  man  in  the  garb  of  a  Belgian  soldier,  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  bearded  cheeks  rest- 
ing on  his  doubled  fists.  Beside  him  on  the  sofa, 
nursing  a  doU,  was  a  little  girl,  who  looked  up  at 
Noel.  She  had  a  most  strange,  attractive,  pale 
little  face,  with  pointed  chin  and  large  eyes,  which 
never  moved  from  this  apparition  in  grey  rabbits' 
skins. 

"Ah,  Barra!  You  here!"  said  the  painter: 
^^Mademoiselle,  this  is  Monsieur  Barra,  a  friend  of 
ours  from  the  front;  and  this  is  our  landlady's  Httle 
girl.    A  httle  refugee,  too,  aren't  you,  Chica?" 

The  child  gave  him  a  sudden  brDHant  smile  and 
resumed  her  grave  scrutiny  of  the  visitor.  The 
soldier,  who  had  risen  heavily,  gave  Noel  one  of 
his  podgy  hands,  with  a  sort  of  sad  and  heavy 
giggle. 

"Sit  down,  mademoiselle, ''■  said  Lavendie,  placing 
a  chair  for  her:  "I  will  bring  my  wife  in,"  and  he 
went  out  through  some  double  doors. 

Noel  sat  down.  The  soldier  had  resumed  his  old 
attitude,  and  the  Httle  girl  her  nursing  of  the  doll, 
though  her  big  eyes  still  watched  the  visitor.  Over- 
come by  strangeness,  Noel  made  no  attempt  to 
talk.  And  presently  through  the  double  doors  the 
painter  and  his  wife  came  in.  She  was  a  thin  woman 
in  a  red  wrapper,  with  hollow  cheeks,  high  cheek- 


230  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

bones,  and  hungry  eyes;  her  dark  hair  hung  loose, 
and  one  hand  played  restlessly  with  a  fold  of  her 
gown.  She  took  Noel's  hand;  and  her  uplifted 
eyes  seemed  to  dig  into  the  girl's  face,  to  let  go  sud- 
denly, and  flutter. 
V  ''How  do  you  do?"  she  said  in  EngUsh.  "So 
Pierre  brought  you  to  see  me  again.  I  remember 
you  so  weU.  You  would  not  let  him  paint  you.  Ah  ! 
que  c'est  drolef  You  are  so  pretty,  too.  Hein,  Mon- 
sieur Barra,  is  not  mademoiselle  pretty?" 

The  soldier  gave  his  heavy  giggle,  and  resumed 
his  scrutiny  of  the  floor. 

"Henriette,"  said  Lavendie,  " asseyez-vous  a  cote  de 
Chica — ^you  must  not  stand.  Asseyez-vous,  made- 
moiselle, je  vous  prie" 

"I'm  so  sorry  you're  not  well,"  said  Noel,  and 
sat  down  again. 

The  painter  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  and 
his  wife  looked  up  at  his  tall,  thin  figure,  with  eyes 
which  had  in  them  a  sort  of  anger,  and  a  sort  of 


cunmng. 


"He  is  a  great  painter,  my  husband,  is  he  not?" 
she  said  suddenly  to  Noel.  ' '  You  would  not  imagine 
what  that  man  can  do.  And  how  he  paints — ^all  day 
long;  and  all  night  he  is  painting  in  his  head.  And 
so  you  would  not  let  him  paint  you,  after  all  ?  " 

"No,"  murmured  NoeJ. 

Those  black  eyes,  travelling  so  ceaselessly  from 
his  face  to  hers,  gave  the  girl  the  fantastic  feeling 
that  they  were  weaving  a  kind  of  web  about  them 
both. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  231 

Lavendie  said  impatiently:  ''Voyons,  Henriette, 
causez  d' autre  chose.^' 

His  wife  plucked  nervously  at  a  fold  in  her  red 
gown,  and  gave  him  the  look  of  a  dog  that  has  been 
rebuked. 

"I  am  a  prisoner  here,  mademoiselle,  I  never 
leave  the  house.  Here  I  hve  day  after  day — my 
husband  is  always  painting.  WTio  would  go  out 
alone  under  this  grey  sky  of  yours,  and  the  hatreds 
of  the  war  in  every  face?  No.  I  prefer  to  keep 
my  room.  My  husband  goes  painting;  every  face 
he  sees  interests  him,  except  that  which  he  sees 
every  day.  But  I  am  a  prisoner.  Monsieur  Barra 
is  our  first  visitor  for  a  long  time." 

The  soldier  raised  his  face  from  his  fists.  ''Vous 
parlez  d'etre  prisonnier,  madame.  What  would  you 
say  if  you  were  out  there?"  And  he  gave  his  thick 
giggle.  "We  are  the  prisoners,  we  others.  What 
would  you  say  to  imprisonment  by  explosion  day 
and  night,  never  a  minute  free.  Bom !  Bom  1  Bom ! 
Ah!  les  tranchees!    It's  not  so  free  as  aU  that,  there." 

"Every  one  has  his  own  prison,"  said  Lavendie 
bitterly.  ^^Mademoiselle  even,  has  her  prison — 
and  little  Chica,  and  her  doll.  Every  one  has  his 
prison,  Barra.  Monsieur  Barra  is  also  a  painter, 
mademoiselle  J  ^ 

"MoH^^  said  Barra,  lifting  his  heavy  hairy  hand. 
"I  paint  puddles,  star-bombs,  horses'  ribs — I  paint 
holes  and  holes  and  holes,  wire  and  wire  and  wire, 
and  water — long  white  ugly  water.  I  paint  splinters, 
and  men's  souls  naked,  and  men's  bodies  dead,  and 


232  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

niglitmare — ^nightmare — all  day  and  all  night — ^I 
paint  them  in  my  head."  He  suddenly  ceased  speak- 
ing and  relapsed  into  contemplation  of  the  carpet, 
with  his  bearded  cheeks  resting  on  his  fists.  "And 
their  souls  as  white  as  snow,  les  camaradesj'^  he  added 
suddenly  and  loudly,  "millions  of  Belgians,  EngHsh 
French,  even  the  Boches,  with  white  souls.  I  paint 
those  souls!" 

A  httle  shiver  ran  through  Noel,  and  she  looked 
appeahngly  at  Lavendie. 

"Barra,"  he  said,  as  if  the  soldier  were  not  there, 
"is  a  great  painter,  but  the  Front  has  turned  his 
head  a  httle.  What  he  says  is  true,  though.  There 
is  no  hatred  out  there.  It  is  here  that  we  are  prisoners 
of  hatred,  mademoiselle;  avoid  hatreds — they  are 
poison!" 

His  wife  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  the  child's 
shoulder. 

"Why  should  we  not  hate?"  she  said.  "Who 
killed  Chica's  father,  and  blew  her  home  to  rags? 
Who  threw  her  out  into  this  horrible  England — 
pardon  J  mademoiselle,  but  it  is  horrible!  Ah!  les 
Boches!  If  my  hatred  could  destroy  them  there 
would  not  be  one  left.  Even  my  husband  was  not 
so  mad  about  his  painting  when  we  hved  at  home. 
But  here — !"  Her  eyes  darted  at  his  face  again, 
and  then  sank  as  if  rebuked.  Noel  saw  the  paint- 
er's hps  move.  The  sick  woman's  whole  figure 
writhed. 

"Manie — certainly  it  is  mania,  your  painting!" 
Then,  seeming  to  make  a  great  effort,  she  looked 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  233 

at  Noel  with  a  smile  which  caused  the  girl's  blood 
to  creep — it  was  such  a  travesty  of  the  conventional 
smile — and  added:  "Will  you  have  some  tea,  made- 
moiselle?   Monsieur  Barra,  some  tea?" 

The  soldier  said  thickly:  "No,  madame;  in  the 
trenches  we  have  tea  enough.  It  consoles  us.  But 
when  we  get  away — give  us  wine,  le  hon  vin;  le  ban 
petit  vin  I " 

"Get  some  wine,  Pierre!" 

Noel  saw  from  the  painter's  face  that  there  was 
no  wine,  and  perhaps  no  money  to  get  any;  but  he 
went  quickly  out.    She  rose  and  said: 

"I  must  be  going,  madame.'^ 

Madame  Lavendie  leaned  forward  and  clutched 
her  wrist,  and  a  sweetish  scent  rose  with  her.  "Wait 
a  little,  mademoiselle.  Sit  down.  We  shall  have 
some  wine,  and  Pierre  shall  take  you  back  presently. 
You  cannot  go  home  alone — ^you  are  too  pretty.  Is 
she  not.  Monsieur  Barra?" 

The  soldier  looked  up:  "What  would  you  say," 
he  said,  "to  bottles  of  wine  bursting  in  the  air,  burst- 
ing red  and  bursting  white,  all  day  long,  all  night 
long?  Great  steel  bottles,  large  as  Chica:  bits  of 
bottles,  carrying  off  men's  heads?  Bsum,  garra-a-a, 
and  a  house  comes  down,  and  little  bits  of  people 
ever  so  small,  ever  so  small,  tiny  bits  in  the  air  and 
all  over  the  ground.  Great  souls  out  there,  madame. 
But  I  will  tell  you  a  secret,"  and  again  he  gave  his 
heavy  giggle,  "all  a  httle,  little  mad;  nothing  to 
speak  of — just  a  httle  bit  mad;  like  a  watch,  you 
know,  that  you  can  wind  for  ever.    That  is  the  dis- 


234  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

CO  very  of  this  war,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  address- 
ing Noel  for  the  first  time,  "you  cannot  gain  a  great 
soul  till  you  are  a  little  mad."  And  lowering  his 
piggy  grey  eyes  at  once,  he  resumed  his  former  atti- 
tude. ''It  is  that  madness  I  shall  paint  some  day," 
he  announced  to  the  carpet;  "lurking  in  one  tiny 
corner  of  each  soul  of  all  those  millions,  as  it  creeps, 
as  it  peeps,  ever  so  sudden,  ever  so  Uttle,  when  we 
all  think  it  has  been  put  to  bed,  here — there,  now — 
then,  when  you  least  think;  in  and  out  like  a  mouse 
with  bright  eyes.  Millions  of  men  wdth  white  souls, 
all  a  little  tiny  atom  mad.  A  great  subject,  I  think," 
he  added  heavily.  Involuntarily  Noel  put  her  hand 
to  her  heart,  which  was  beating  fast.  She  felt  quite 
sick. 

"Sit  down,  mademoiselle,''^  said  Madame  Laven- 
die,  and  her  eyes  gleamed.  Resuming  her  seat,  Noel 
saw  the  woman's  thin  hand  steal  to  her  mouth,  and 
thought:  'Yes,  perhaps,  we  are  all  mad;  I  too,  I 
daresay !  * 

"How  long  have  you  been  at  the  Front,  mon- 
sieur ?^^ 

"Two  years,  mademoiselle.  Time  to  go  home 
and  paint,  is  it  not?  But  art — !"  he  shrugged  his 
heavy  round  shoulders,  his  whole  bear-like  body. 
*'A  little  mad,"  he  muttered  once  more.  "I  will 
tell  you  a  story.  Once  in  winter  after  I  had  rested 
a  fortnight,  I  go  back  to  the  trenches  at  night,  and 
I  want  some  earth  to  fill  up  a  Httle  hole  in  the  ground 
where  I  was  sleeping;  when  one  has  slept  in  a  bed 
one  becomes  particular.     Well,  I  scratch  it  from 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  235 

my  parapet,  and  I  come  to  something  funny.     I 
strike  my  briquet,  and  there  is  a  Boche's  face  all 
frozen  and  earthy  and  dead  and  greeny-white  in, 
the  flame  from  my  briquet." 
Oh,  no!" 

Oh!  but  yes,  mademoiselle;  true  as  I  sit  here. 
Very  useful  in  the  parapet — dead  Boche.  I  talked 
with  him  all  night;  once  a  man  like  me.  But  in 
the  morning  I  could  not  stand  him;  we  dug  him  out 
and  buried  him,  and  filled  the  hole  up  with  other 
things.  But  there  I  stood  in  the  night,  and  my 
face  as  close  to  his  as  this" — and  he  held  his  thick 
hand  a  foot  before  his  face.  "We  talked  of  our 
homes;  he  had  a  soul,  that  man.  //  me  disait  des 
choses,  how  he  had  suffered;  and  I,  too,  told  hhn 
my  sufferings.  Dear  God,  we  know  all;  we  shall 
never  know  more  than  we  know  out  there,  we  others, 
for  we  are  mad — nothing  to  speak  of,  but  just  a 
little,  Kttle  mad.  When  you  see  us,  mademoiselle^ 
walking  the  streets,  remember  that."  And  he 
dropped  his  face  on  to  his  fists  again. 

A  silence  had  fallen  in  the  room — very  queer 
and  complete.  The  Httle  girl  nursed  her  doll,  the 
soldier  gazed  at  the  floor,  the  woman's  mouth  moved 
stealthily,  and  in  Noel  the  thought  rushed  continu- 
ally to  the  verge  of  action:  *  Couldn't  I  get  up  and 
run  downstairs?'  But  she  sat  on,  hypnotised  by 
that  silence,  till  Lavendie  reappeared  with  a  bottle 
and  four  glasses. 

"To  drink  our  health,  and  wish  us  luck,  made- 
moiselle," he  said.    '^Eenrielte,  qa  vousfera  du  bieni 


236  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Barra!  II  faut  toujours  esperer,  n^est-ce-pas,  made- 
moiselle?^^ 

Noel  raised  the  glass  he  had  given  her.  "I  wish 
you  all  happiness." 

"And  you,  m^emoiselle,''^  the  two  men  mur- 
mured. 

She  drank  a  little,  and  rose. 

''And  now,  mademoiselle,"  said  Lavendie,  "if  you 
must  go,  I  will  see  you  home." 

Noel  took  Madame  Lavendie's  hand;  it  was 
cold,  and  returned  no  pressure;  her  eyes  had  the 
glazed  look  that  she  remembered.  The  soldier  had 
put  his  empty  glass  down  on  the  floor,  and  was  re- 
garding it  unconscious  of  her.  Noel  turned  quickly 
to  the  door;  the  last  thing  she  saw  was  the  little 
girl  nursing  her  doll  and  gazing  after  her. 

In  the  street  the  painter  began  at  once  in  his  rapid 
French : 

"I  ought  not  to  have  asked  you  to  come,  made- 
moiselle; I  did  not  know  our  friend  Barra  was  there. 
Besides,  my  wife  is  not  fit  to  receive  a  lady;  vous 
voyez  qu'il  y  a  de  la  manie  dans  cette  pauvre  teie.  I 
should  not  have  asked  you;  but  I  was  so  miser- 
able." 

"Oh!"  murmured  Noel,  "I  know." 

"In  our  home  over  there  she  had  interests.  In 
this  great  town  she  can  only  nurse  her  grief  against 
me.  Ah !  this  war !  It  seems  to  me  we  are  all  in 
the  stomach  of  a  great  coiling  serpent.  We  lie  there, 
being  digested.  In  a  way  it  is  better  out  there  in  the 
trenches;  they  are  beyond  hate,  they  have  attained 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  237 

a  height  that  we  have  not.  It  is  wonderful  how 
they  still  can  be  for  going  on  till  they  have  beaten 
theBoche;  that  is  curious  and  it  is  very  great.  Did 
Barra  teU  you  how,  when  they  come  back — all  these 
fighters — they  are  going  to  rule,  and  manage  the 
future  of  the  world?  But  it  will  not  be  so.  They 
will  mix  in  with  life,  separate — ^be  scattered,  and 
they  wiU  be  ruled  as  they  were  before.  The  tongue 
and  the  pen  will  rule  them:  those  who  have  not 
seen  the  war  will  rule  them." 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Noel,  "  surely  they  will  be  the  bravest 
and  strongest  in  the  future." 

The  painter  smiled. 

"War  makes  men  simple,"  he  said,  "elemental; 
life  in  peace  is  neither  simple  nor  elemental,  it  is 
subtle,  full  of  changing  environments,  to  which 
man  must  adapt  himself;  the  cunning,  the  astute, 
the  adaptable,  will  ever  rule  in  times  of  peace.  It 
is  pathetic,  the  behef  of  those  brave  soldiers  that 
the  future  is  theirs." 

"He  said  a  strange  thing,"  murmured  Noel;  "that 
they  were  all  a  Httle  tiny  bit  mad." 

"He  is  a  man  of  queer  genius — Barra;  you  should 
see  some  of  his  earher  pictures.  Mad  is  not  quite 
the  word,  but  something  is  loosened,  is  rattling 
round  in  them,  they  have  lost  proportion,  they  are 
being  forced  in  one  direction.  I  tell  you,  made- 
moiselle, this  war  is  one  great  forcing-house;  every 
living  plant  is  being  made  to  grow  too  fast,  each 
quality,  each  passion;  hate  and  love,  intolerance 
and  lust  and  avarice,  courage  and  energ>';  yes,  and 


238  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

self-sacrifice — all  are  being  forced  and  forced  be- 
yond their  strength,  beyond  the  natural  flow  of  the 
sap,  forced  till  there  has  come  a  great  wild  luxuriant 
crop,  and  then — Psum !  Presto  !  The  change  comes, 
and  these  plants  will  wither  and  rot  and  stink.  But 
we  who  see  Life  in  form  of  Art  are  the  only  ones 
who  feel  that;  and  we  are  so  few.  The  natural 
shape  of  things  is  lost.  There  is  a  mist  of  blood 
before  all  eyes.  Men  are  afraid  of  being  fair.  See 
how  we  all  hate  not  only  our  enemies,  but  those 
who  differ  from  us.  Look  at  the  streets  too — see 
how  men  and  women  rush  together,  how  Venus 
reigns  in  this  forcing-house.  Is  it  not  natural  that 
Youth  about  to  die  should  yearn  for  pleasure,  for 
love,  for  union,  before  death?" 

Noel  stared  up  at  him.  'Now!*  she  thought: 
^wiU.' 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  know  that's  true,  because  I 
rushed,  myself.  I'd  like  you  to  know.  We  couldn't 
be  married — there  wasn't  time.  And  he  was  killed. 
But  his  son  is  alive.  That's  why  I've  been  away 
so  long.  I  want  every  one  to  know."  She  spoke 
very  calmly,  but  her  cheeks  felt  burning  hot. 

The  painter  had  made  an  upward  movement  of 
his  hands,  as  if  they  had  been  jerked  by  an  electric 
current,  then  he  said  quite  quietly: 

"My  profound  respect,  mademoiselle,  and  my 
great  sympathy.    And  your  father?" 

"It's  awful  for  him." 

The  painter  said  gently:  "Ah!  mademoiselle,  I 
am  not  so  sure.   Perhaps  he  does  not  suffer  so  greatly. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  239 

Perhaps  not  even  your  trouble  can  hurt  him  very 
much.  He  hves  in  a  world  apart.  That,  I  think, 
is  his  true  tragedy — to  be  aUve,  and  yet  not  hving 
enough  to  feel  reahty.  Do  you  know  Anatole 
France's  description  of  an  old  woman:  ^^Elle  vivait, 
mats  si  peu.'^  Would  that  not  be  well  said  of  the 
Church  in  these  days:  "Elk  vivait,  mats  si  peu.^^ 
I  see  him  always  like  a  rather  beautiful  dark  spire 
in  the  night-time  when  you  cannot  see  how  it  is 
attached  to  the  earth.  He  does  not  know,  he  never 
will  know,  Life." 

Noel  looked  round  at  him.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  Life,  monsieur?  I'm  always  reading  about  Life, 
and  people  talk  of  seeing  Life !  What  is  it — where  is 
it?     I  never  see  anything  that  you  could  call  Life." 

The  painter  smiled. 

"To  'see  Hfe' !"  he  said.  "Ah  !  that  is  different. 
To  enjoy  yourself !  Well,  it  is  my  experience  that 
when  people  are  'seeing  hfe'  as  they  call  it,  they 
are  not  enjoying  themselves.  You  know  when  one 
is  very  thirsty  one  drinks  and  drinks,  but  the  thirst 
remains  aU  the  same.  There  are  places  where  one 
can  see  life  as  it  is  called,  but  the  only  persons  you 
wiU  see  enjoying  themselves  at  such  places  are  a 
few  humdrums  like  myself,  who  go  there  for  a  talk 
over  a  cup  of  coffee.  Perhaps  at  your  age,  though, 
it  is  diff'erent." 

Noel  clasped  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to 
shine  in  the  gloom.  "I  want  music  and  dancing 
and  Ught,  and  beautiful  things  and  faces;  but  I 
never  get  them." 


240  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"No,  there  does  not  exist  in  this  town,  or  in  any 
other,  a  place  which  will  give  you  that.  Fox-trots 
and  ragtime  and  paint  and  powder  and  glare  and 
half-drunken  young  men,  and  women  with  red  lips — 
you  can  get  them  in  plenty.  But  rhythm  and  beauty 
and  charm — ^never.  In  Brussels  when  I  was  younger 
I  saw  much  'life'  as  they  call  it,  but  not  one  lovely 
thing  imspoiled;  it  was  all  as  ashes  in  the  mouth. 
Ah !  you  may  smile,  but  I  know  what  I  am  talking 
of.  Happiness  never  comes  when  you  are  looking 
for  it,  mademoiselle;  beauty  is  in  Nature  and  in 
real  art,  never  in  these  false  silly  make-believes. 
There  is  a  place  just  here  where  we  Belgians  go; 
would  you  like  to  see  how  true  my  words  are?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"  Tres-hien!    Let  us  go  in  ?  " 

They  passed  into  a  swing  door  which  confined 
them  in  little  glass  compartments  and  shot  them 
out  into  a  shining  corridor.  At  the  end  of  this  the 
painter  looked  at  Noel  and  seemed  to  hesitate,  then 
he  turned  off  from  the  room  they  were  about  to 
enter  into  a  room  on  the  right.  It  was  large,  full 
of  gilt  and  plush  and  marble  tables,  where  couples 
were  seated;  young  men  in  khaki  and  older  men 
in  plain  clothes,  together  or  with  young  women. 
At  these  last  Noel  looked,  face  after  face,  while 
they  were  passing  down  a  long  way  to  an  empty 
table.  She  saw  that  some  were  pretty,  and  some 
only  trying  to  be,  that  nearly  all  were  powdered 
and  had  their  eyes  darkened  and  their  lips  reddened, 
till  she  felt  her  own  face  to  be  dreadfully  ungamished. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  241 

Up  in  a  gallery  a  small  band  was  playing  an  attrac- 
tive jingling  hollow  little  tune;  and  the  buzz  of 
talk  and  laughter  was  almost  deafening. 

"What  will  you  have,  mademoiselle?^^  said  the 
painter.  "It  is  just  nine  o'clock;  we  must  order 
quickly." 

"May  I  have  one  of  those  green  things?" 

"Deux  crimes  de  menthe,^^  said  Lavendie  to  the 
waiter. 

Noel  was  too  absorbed  to  see  the  queer,  bitter 
Httle  smile  hovering  about  his  face.  She  was  busy 
looking  at  the  faces  of  women  whose  eyes,  furtively 
cold  and  enquiring,  were  fixed  on  her;  and  at  the 
faces  of  men  -with  eyes  that  were  furtively  warm 
and  wondering. 

"I  wonder  if  Daddy  was  ever  in  a  place  like  this?" 
she  said,  putting  the  glass  of  green  stuff  to  her  lips. 
"Is  it  nice?    It  smells  of  peppermint." 

"Les  cocottes  raiment,^'  said  Lavendie  savagely. 
"A  beautiful  colour.  Good  luck,  mademoiselle!'^ 
and  he  chinked  his  glass  with  hers. 

Noel  sipped,  held  it  away,  and  sipped  again. 

"It's  nice;  but  awfully  sticky.  May  I  have  a 
cigarette?" 

Des  cigarettes,"  said  Lavendie  to  the  waiter, 
Et  deux  cafes  noirs.  Now,  mademoiselle,"  he  mur- 
mured when  they  were  brought,  "if  we  imagine 
that  we  have  drunk  a  bottle  of  wine  each,  we  shall 
have  exhausted  all  the  preliminaries  of  what  is 
called  Vice.  Amusing,  isn't  it?"  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 


ii 


242  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

His  face  struck  Noel  suddenly  as  tarnished  and 
almost  sullen. 

"Don't  be  angry,  monsieur ,  it's  all  new  to  me, 
you  see." 

The  painter  smiled  at  once,  his  bright,  skin-deep 
smile. 

"Pardon !  I  forget  myself.  Only,  it  hurts  me  to 
see  beauty  in  a  place  like  this.  It  does  not  go  well 
with  that  tune,  and  these  voices,  and  these  faces. 
Enjoy  yourself,  mademoiselle;  drink  it  all  in  !  See 
the  way  these  people  look  at  each  other;  what  love 
shines  in  their  eyes !  A  pity,  too,  we  cannot  hear 
what  they  are  saying.  Believe  me,  their  talk  is 
most  subtle,  tres-spirituel.  These  young  women  are 
'doing  their  bit,'  as  you  call  it;  bringing  refresh- 
ments to  all  these  who  are  serving  their  country. 
Eat,  drink,  love,  for  to-morrow  we  die.  Who  cares 
for  the  world  simple  or  the  world  beautiful,  in  days 
like  these  ?  The  house  of  the  spirit  is  empty  and  to 
let." 

He  was  looking  at  her  sidelong  with  an  expression 
as  if  he  would  enter  her  very  soul. 

Noel  got  up.    "I'm  ready  to  go,  monsieur.''^ 

He  put  her  cloak  on  her  shoulders,  paid  the  bill, 
and  they  went  out,  threading  again  through  the 
little  tables,  through  the  buzz  of  talk  and  laughter 
and  the  fumes  of  tobacco,  while  another  hollow 
httle  tune  jingled  away  behind  them. 

"Through  there,"  said  the  painter,  pointing  to 
another  door,  "they  dance.  So  it  goes.  London  in 
war-time !    Well,  after  all,  it  is  never  very  different; 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  243 

no  great  town  is.  Did  you  enjoy  your  sight  of  'life/ 
mademoiselle?  " 

'^I  think  one  must  dance,  to  be  happy.  Is  that 
where  your  friends  go?" 

"Oh,  no!  To  a  room  much  rougher,  and  play 
dominoes,  and  drink  coffee  and  beer,  and  talk.  They 
have  no  money  to  throw  away." 

"Why  didn't  you  show  me?" 

"Mademoiselle,  in  that  room  you  might  see  some- 
one perhaps  whom  one  day  you  would  meet  again; 
in  the  place  we  visited  you  were  safe  enough — at 
least  I  hope  so." 

Noel  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  I  suppose  it  doesn't 
matter  now,  what  I  do." 

And  a  rush  of  emotion  caught  at  her  throat — a 
wave  from  the  past — the  moonlit  night,  the  dark 
old  Abbey,  the  woods  and  the  river.  As  they  passed 
out  into  the  street,  two  great  tears  were  roUing  down 
her  cheeks. 

"I  was  thinking  of  something,"  she  said  in  a 
muffled  voice.    "It's  all  right." 

"Ciiere  mademoiselle!  "  Lavendie  murmured;  and 
all  the  way  home  he  was  timid  and  distressed.  Shak- 
ing his  hand  at  the  door,  she  murmured: 

"I'm  sorry  I  was  such  a  fool;  and  thank  you 
awfully,  monsieur.    Good  night." 

"Good  night;  and  better  dreams.  There  is  a 
good  time  coming — Peace  and  Happiness  once  more 
in  the  world.  It  wiU  not  always  be  this  Forcing- 
House.    Good  night,  chcre  mademoiselle  !^' 

Noel  went  up  to  the  nurscr}^,  and  stole  in.     A 


244  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

night-light  was  burning,  and  Nurse  and  baby  were 
fast  asleep.  She  tiptoed  through  into  her  own  room. 
Once  there,  she  felt  suddenly  so  tired  that  she  could 
hardly  undress;  and  yet  curiously  rested,  as  if  with 
that  rush  of  emotion,  Cyril  and  the  past  had  slipped 
from  her  for  ever. 


Ill 

I§ 

Noel's  first  encounter  with  Opinion  took  place 
the  following  day.  The  baby  had  just  come  in  from 
its  airing;  she  had  seen  it  comfortably  snoozing, 
and  was  on  her  way  dowistairs,  when  a  voice  from 
the  hall  said: 

"How  do  you  do?"  and  she  saw  a  khaki-clad 
figure  down  there,  Adrian  Lauder,  her  father's 
curate !  Hesitating  just  a  moment,  she  finished 
her  descent,  and  put  her  fingers  in  his.  He  was  a 
rather  heavy,  dough-coloured  young  man  of  nearly 
thirty,  whom  khaki,  with  a  round  white  collar  but- 
toned behind,  did  not  suit;  but  his  aspiring  grey 
eyes  redeemed  him,  proclaiming  the  best  intentions 
in  the  world,  and  an  inclination  towards  sentiment 
in  the  presence  of  beauty. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  for  ages,"  he  said  rather 
fatuously,  following  her  into  her  father's  study. 

"No,"  said  Noel.  "How  do  you  like  being  at 
the  Front?" 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "they're  wonderful!"  And  his 
eyes  shone  so,  that  he  looked  almost  handsome. 
"It's  so  nice  to  see  you  again." 

"Is  it?" 

245 


246  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

He  seemed  puzzled  by  that  answer;  stammered, 
and  said: 

"I  didn't  know  your  sister  had  a  baby.  A  jolly 
baby." 

''She  hasn't." 

Lauder's  mouth  opened.  'It's  a  silly  mouth,' 
she  thought. 

"Oh!"  he  said.  "Is  it  a  protegee — ^Belgian  or 
something?" 

"No,  it's  mine;  my  own."  And,  turning  round, 
she  sHpped  the  little  ring  off  her  finger.  WTien  she 
turned  back  to  liim,  his  face  had  not  recovered  from 
her  words.  It  had  a  hapless  look,  as  of  one  to  whom 
such  a  thing  ought  not  to  have  happened. 

"Don't  look  Hke  that,"  said  Noel.  "Didn't  you 
imderstand?  It's  mine — mine."  She  put  out  her 
left  hand.    "Look!    There's  no  ring." 

He  stammered:  "I  say,  you  oughtn't  to — you 
oughtn't  to !" 

"Vl%at?" 

"Joke  about — about  such  things;  ought  you?" 

"One  doesn't  joke  if  one's  had  a  baby  without 
being  married,  you  know." 

Lauder  went  suddenly  slack.  A  shell  might  have 
burst  a  few  paces  from  him.  And  then,  just  as  one 
would  in  such  a  case,  he  made  an  effort,  braced  him- 
self, and  said  in  a  curious  voice,  both  stiff  and  heavy : 
*'I  can't — one  doesn't — it's  not " 

"It  is,"  said  Noel.  "If  you  don't  beheve  me, 
ask  Daddy." 

He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  round  collar;  and  with 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  247 

the  wild  thought  that  he  was  going  to  tear  it  off^ 
she  cried:   ''Don't!" 

"You!"  hQSSiid.    ''You!    But " 

Noel  turned  away  from  him  to  the  window.  She 
stood  looking  out,  but  saw  nothing  whatever. 

"I  don't  want  it  hidden,"  she  said  without  turn- 
ing round,  "I  want  every  one  to  know.  It's  stupid 
as  it  is — stupid ! "  and  she  stamped  her  foot.  "Can't 
you  see  how  stupid  it  is — everybody's  mouth  falling 
open!" 

He  uttered  a  httle  sound  which  had  pain  in  it, 
and  Noel  felt  a  real  pang  of  compunction.  She 
turned  for  a  sidelong  look.  He  had  gripped  the 
back  of  a  chair;  his  face  had  parted  with  all  its  heavi- 
ness. A  dull  flush  coloured  his  cheeks.  Noel  had 
a  horrible  feehng,  as  if  she  had  been  convicted  of 
treachery.  It  was  his  silence,  the  curious  look  of 
an  impersonal  pain  beyond  power  of  words;  she 
felt  in  him  something  much  deeper  than  mere  dis- 
approval— something  which  echoed  within  herself. 
She  walked  quickly  past  him  and  escaped.  She 
ran  upstairs  and  threw  herself  on  her  bed.  He 
was  nothing:  it  was  not  that!  It  was  in  herself, 
the  awful  feeling,  for  the  first  time  developed  and 
poignant,  that  she  had  betrayed  her  caste,  forfeited 
the  right  to  be  thought  a  lady,  betrayed  her  secret 
reserve  and  refinement,  repaid  with  black  ingratitude 
the  love  lavished  on  her  upbringing,  by  behaving 
like  any  uncared-for  common  girl.  She  had  never 
felt  this  before — not  even  when  Gratian  first  heard 
of  it,  and  they  had   stood  one  at  each  end  of 


248  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

the  hearth,  unable  to  speak.  Then  she  still  had 
her  passion,  and  her  grief  for  the  dead.  That  was 
gone  now  as  if  it  had  never  been;  and  she  had  no 
defence,  nothing  between  her  and  this  crushing 
humihation  and  chagrin.  She  had  been  mad !  She 
must  have  been  mad  !  The  Belgian  Barra  was  right : 
*A11  a  little  mad'  in  this  'forcing-house'  of  a  war! 
She  buried  her  face  deep  in  the  pillow,  till  it  almost 
stopped  her  power  of  breathing;  her  head  and  cheeks 
and  ears  seemed  to  be  on  fire.  If  only  he  had  shown 
disgust,  done  something  which  roused  her  temper, 
her  sense  of  justice,  her  feeling  that  Fate  had  been 
too  cruel  to  her;  but  he  had  just  stood  there,  be- 
wilderment incarnate,  like  a  creature  with  some 
very  deep  illusion  shattered.  It  was  horrible  !  Then, 
feeling  that  she  could  not  stay  still,  must  walk,  run, 
get  away  somehow  from  this  feeling  of  treachery 
and  betrayal,  she  sprang  up.  AH  was  quiet  below, 
and  she  sHpped  downstairs  and  out,  speeding  along 
with  no  knowledge  of  direction,  taking  the  way  she 
had  taken  day  after  day  to  her  hospital.  It  was 
the  last  of  April,  trees  and  shrubs  were  luscious 
with  blossom  and  leaf;  the  dogs  ran  gaily;  people 
had  almost  happy  faces  in  the  sunshine.  'If  I  could 
get  away  from  myself,  I  wouldn't  care,'  she  thought. 
Easy  to  get  away  from  people,  from  London,  even 
from  England  perhaps;  but  from  oneself — ^impos- 
sible !  She  passed  her  hospital,  and  looked  at  it 
duUy,  at  the  Red  Cross  flag  against  its  stucco  wall, 
and  a  soldier  in  his  blue  slops  and  red  tie,  coming 
out.     She  had  spent  many  miserable  hours  there, 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  249 

but  none  quite  so  miserable  as  this.  She  passed 
the  church  opposite  to  the  flats  where  Leila  Hved, 
and  running  suddenly  into  a  tall  man  coming  round 
the  comer,  saw  that  it  was  Fort.  She  bent  her  head, 
and  tried  to  hurry  past.  But  his  hand  was  held 
out,  she  could  not  help  putting  hers  into  it;  and 
looking  up  hardily,  she  said: 

''You  know  about  me,  don't  you?" 

His  face,  naturally  so  frank,  seemed  to  clench  up, 
as  if  he  were  riding  at  a  fence.  'He'll  tell  a  he'  she 
thought  bitterly.    But  he  did  not. 

"Yes,  Leila  told  me." 

And  she  thought:  'I  suppose  he'll  try  and  pre- 
tend that  I've  not  been  a  beast ! ' 

*'I  admire  your  pluck,"  he  said. 

*'I  haven't  any." 

*'We  never  know  ourselves,  do  we?  I  suppose 
you  wouldn't  walk  my  pace  a  minute  or  two,  would 
you?    I'm  going  the  same  way." 

'*'!  don't  know  which  way  I'm  going." 

"That  is  my  case,  too." 

They  walked  on  in  silence. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  were  back  in  France,"  said  Fort 
abruptly.    "One  doesn't  feel  clean  here." 

Noel's  heart  applauded. 

Ah !  to  get  away — away  from  oneself !  But  at 
the  thought  of  her  baby,  her  heart  fell  again.  "Is 
your  leg  quite  hopeless?"  she  said. 

"Quite." 

"That  must  be  horrid." 

"Hundreds  of  thousands  would  look  on  it  as  splen- 


250  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

did  luck;  and  so  it  is  if  you  count  it  better  to  be 
alive  than  dead,  which  I  do,  in  spite  of  the  blues." 

''How  is  Cousin  Leila?" 

''Very  weU.  She  goes  on  pegging  away  at  the 
hospital;  she's  a  brick."  But  he  did  not  look  at 
her,  and  again  there  was  silence,  till  he  stopped 
by  Lord's  Cricket  Ground. 

"I  mustn't  keep  you  crawhng  along  at  this  pace." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind!" 

"I  only  wanted  to  say  that  if  I  can  be  of  any  ser- 
vice to  you  at  any  time  in  any  way  whatever,  please 
command  me." 

He  gave  her  hand  a  squeeze,  took  his  hat  off; 
and  Noel  walked  slowly  on.  The  little  interview, 
with  its  suppressions,  and  its  imphcations,  had  but 
exasperated  her  restlessness,  and  yet,  in  a  way,  it 
had  soothed  the  soreness  of  her  heart.  Captain 
Fort  at  all  events  did  not  despise  her:  and  he  was 
in  trouble  Hke  herself.  She  felt  that  somehow  by 
the  look  of  his  face,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  when 
he  spoke  of  Leila.  She  quickened  her  pace.  George's 
words  came  back  to  her:  "If  you're  not  ashamed  of 
yourself,  no  one  will  be  of  you !"  How  easy  to  say ! 
The  old  days,  her  school,  the  little  half  grown-up 
dances  she  used  to  go  to,  when  everything  was  happy. 
Gone !    AU  gone ! 

But  her  meetings  with  Opinion  were  not  over 
for  the  day,  for  turning  again  at  last  into  the  home 
Square,  tired  out  by  her  three  hours'  ramble,  she 
met  an  old  lady  whom  she  and  Gratian  had  known 
from  babyhood — a  handsome  dame,  the  widow  of 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  251 

an  official,  who  spent  her  days,  which  showed  no 
symptom  of  decHning,  in  admirable  works.  Her 
daughter,  the  widow  of  an  officer  killed  at  the  Marne, 
was  with  her,  and  the  two  greeted  Noel  with  a  shower 
of  cordial  questions:  "So  she  was  back  from  the 
country,  and  was  she  quite  well  again  ?  And  work- 
ing at  her  hospital?  And  how  was  her  dear  father? 
They  had  thought  him  looking  very  thin  and  worn. 
But  now  Gratian  was  at  home —  How  dread- 
fully the  war  kept  husbands  and  wives  apart !  And 
whose  was  the  dear  Uttle  baby  they  had  in  the 
house?" 

"Mine,"  said  Noel,  walking  straight  past  them 
with  her  head  up.  In  every  fibre  of  her  being  she 
could  feel  the  hurt,  startled,  utterly  bewildered 
looks  of  those  firm  friendly  persons  left  there  on 
the  pavement  behind  her;  could  feel  the  way  they 
would  gather  themselves  together,  and  walk  on, 
perhaps  without  a  word,  and  then  round  the  comer 
begin:  "WTiat  has  come  to  Noel?  What  did  she 
mean?"  And  taking  the  little  gold  hoop  out  of 
her  pocket,  she  flung  it  with  all  her  might  into  the 
Square  Garden.  The  action  saved  her  from  a  break- 
down; and  she  went  in  calmly.  Lunch  w^as  long 
over,  but  her  father  had  not  gone  out,  for  he  met 
her  in  the  hall  and  drew  her  into  the  dining-room. 

"You  must  eat,  my  child,"  he  said.  And  while 
she  was  swallowing  down  what  he  had  caused  to  be 
kept  back  for  her,  he  stood  by  the  hearth  in  that 
favourite  attitude  of  his,  one  foot  on  the  fender, 
and  one  hand  gripping  the  mantel-shelf. 


252  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"You've  got  your  wish,  Daddy,"  she  said  dully: 
"Everybody  knows  now.  I've  told  Mr.  Lauder, 
and  monsieur,  and  the  Dinnafords." 

She  saw  his  fingers  uncrisp,  then  grip  the  shelf 
again.    "I'm  glad,"  he  said. 

"Aunt  Thirza  gave  me  a  ring  to  wear,  but  I've 
thrown  it  away." 

"My  dearest  child,"  he  began,  but  could  not  go 
on,  for  the  quivering  of  his  lips. 

"I  wanted  to  say  once  more,  Daddy,  that  I'm 
fearfully  sorry  about  you.  And  I  am  ashamed  of 
myself;  I  thought  I  wasn't,  but  I  am — only,  I  think 
it  was  cruel,  and  I'm  not  penitent  to  God;  and  it's 
no  good  trying  to  make  me." 

Pierson  turned  and  looked  at  her.  For  a  long 
time  after,  she  could  not  get  that  look  out  of  her 
memory. 

Jimmy  Fort  had  turned  away  from  Noel  feeling 
particularly  wretched.  Ever  since  the  day  when 
Leila  had  told  him  of  the  girl's  misfortune  he  had 
been  aware  that  his  Uaison  had  no  decent  founda- 
tion, save  a  sort  of  pity.  One  day,  in  a  queer  access 
of  compunction,  he  had  made  Leila  an  offer  of  mar- 
riage. She  had  refused;  and  he  had  respected  her 
the  more,  reaUsing  by  the  quiver  in  her  voice  and 
the  look  in  her  eyes  that  she  refused  him,  not  be- 
cause she  did  not  love  him  well  enough,  but  because 
she  was  afraid  of  losing  any  of  his  affection.  She 
was  a  woman  of  great  experience. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  253 

To-day  he  had  taken  advantage  of  the  luncheon 
interval  to  bring  her  some  flowers,  with  a  note  to 
say  that  he  could  not  come  that  evening.  Letting 
himself  in  with  his  latch-key,  he  had  carefully 
put  those  Japanese  azaleas  in  the  bowl  'Famille 
Rose,'  taking  water  from  her  bedroom.  Then  he 
had  sat  down  on  the  divan  with  his  head  in  his 
hands. 

Though  he  had  rolled  so  much  about  the  world, 
he  had  never  had  much  to  do  with  women.  And 
there  was  nothing  in  him  of  the  Frenchman,  who 
takes  what  Ufe  puts  in  his  way  as  so  much  enjoy- 
ment on  the  credit  side,  and  accepts  the  ends  of 
such  affairs  as  they  naturally  and  rather  rapidly 
arrive.  It  had  been  a  pleasure,  and  was  no  longer 
a  pleasure;  but  this  apparently  did  not  dissolve  it, 
or  absolve  him.  He  felt  himself  bound  by  an  ob- 
scure but  deep  instinct  to  go  on  pretending  that 
he  was  not  tired  of  her,  so  long  as  she  was  not  tired 
of  him.  And  he  sat  there  trying  to  remember  any 
sign,  however  small,  of  such  a  consummation,  quite 
without  success.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  even 
the  wretched  feeling  that  if  only  he  had  loved  her, 
she  would  have  been  much  more  likely  to  have  tired 
of  him  by  now.  For  her  he  was  still  the  unconquered, 
in  spite  of  his  loyal  endeavour  to  seem  conquered. 
He  had  made  a  fatal  mistake,  that  evening  after 
the  concert  at  Queen's  Hall,  to  let  himself  go,  on  a 
mixed  tide  of  desire  and  pity ! 

His  folly  came  to  him  with  increased  poignancy 
after  he  had  parted  from  Noel.    How  could  he  have 


254  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

been  such  a  base  fool,  as  to  have  committed  himself 
to  Leila  on  an  evening  when  he  had  actually  been 
in  the  company  of  that  child?  Was  it  the  vague, 
unseizable  likeness  between  them  which  had  pushed 
him  over  the  edge?  'I've  been  an  ass,'  he  thought; 
'a  horrible  ass.  I  would  always  have  given  every 
hour  I've  ever  spent  with  Leila,  for  one  real  smile 
from  that  girl.' 

This  sudden  sight  of  Noel  after  months  during 
which  he  had  tried  loyally  to  forget  her  existence, 
and  not  succeeded  at  all,  made  him  realise  as  he 
never  had  yet  that  he  was  in  love  with  her;  so  very 
much  in  love  with  her  that  the  thought  of  Leila 
was  become  nauseating.  And  yet  the  instincts  of 
a  gentleman  seemed  to  forbid  him  to  betray  that 
secret  to  either  of  them.  It  was  an  accursed  coil ! 
He  hailed  a  cab,  for  he  was  late;  and  all  the  way 
back  to  the  War  Office  he  continued  to  see  the  girl's 
figure  and  her  face  with  its  short  hair.  And  a  fear- 
ful temptation  rose  within  him.  Was  it  not  she  who 
was  now  the  real  object  for  chivalry  and  pity  ?  Had 
he  not  the  right  to  consecrate  himself  to  champion- 
ship of  one  in  such  a  deplorable  position?  Leila 
had  hved  her  fife;  but  this  child's  fife— pretty  well 
wrecked— was  all  before  her.  And  then  he  grinned 
from  sheer  disgust.  For  he  knew  that  this  was 
Jesuitry.  Not  chivalry  was  moving  him,  but  love ! 
Love  !  Love  of  the  unattainable  !  And  with  a  heavy 
heart,  indeed,  he  entered  the  great  building,  where, 
in  a  small  room,  companioned  by  the  telephone,  and 
surrounded  by  sheets  of  paper  covered  with  figures, 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  255 

he  passed  his  days.  The  war  made  everything  seem 
dreary,  hopeless.  No  wonder  he  had  caught  at  any 
distraction  which  came  along — caught  at  it,  till  it 
bad  caught  him ! 


IV 


To  find  out  the  worst  is,  for  human  nature,  only 
a  question  of  time.  But  where  the  "worst"  is  at- 
tached to  a  family  haloed,  as  it  were,  by  the  author- 
ity and  reputation  of  an  institution  like  the  Church, 
the  process  of  discovery  has  to  break  through  many 
a  Httle  hedge.  Sheer  unlikelihood,  genuine  respect, 
the  defensive  instinct  in  those  identified  with  an 
institution,  who  will  themselves  feel  weaker  if  its 
strength  be  diminished,  the  feeling  that  the  scandal 
is  too  good  to  be  true — all  these  httle  hedges,  and 
more,  had  to  be  broken  through.  To  the  Dinna- 
fords,  the  unholy  importance  of  what  Noel  had 
said  to  them  would  have  continued  to  keep  them 
dumb,  out  of  self -protection;  but  its  monstrosity 
had  given  them  the  feeHng  that  there  must  be  some 
mistake,  that  the  girl  had  been  overtaken  by  a  wild 
desire  to  "pull  their  legs"  as  dear  Charlie  would 
say.  With  the  hope  of  getting  this  view  confirmed, 
they  lay  in  wait  for  the  old  nurse  who  took  the  baby 
out,  and  obtained  the  information,  shortly  imparted : 
"Oh,  yes;  Miss  Noel's.  Her  'usband  was  killed — 
poor  lamb!"  And  they  felt  rewarded.  They  had 
been  sure  there  was  some  mistake.  The  relief  of 
hearing  that  word  "'usband"  was  intense.  One  of 
these  hasty  war  marriages,  of  which  the  dear  Vicar 

256 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  257 

had  not  approved,  and  so  it  had  been  kept  dark. 
Quite  intelligible,  but  so  sad!  Enough  misgiving 
however  remained  in  their  minds,  to  prevent  their 
going  to  condole  with  the  dear  Vicar;  but  not 
enough  to  prevent  their  roundly  contradicting  the 
rumours  and  gossip  already  coming  to  their  ears. 
And  then  one  day,  when  their  friend  Mrs.  Curtis 
had  said  too  positively:  "Well,  she  doesn't  wear  a 
wedding-ring,  that  I'll  swear,  because  I  took  very 
good  care  to  look!"  they  determined  to  ask  Mr. 
Lauder.  He  would — indeed  must — know;  and,  of 
course,  would  not  tell  a  story.  When  they  asked 
him  it  was  so  manifest  that  he  did  know,  that  they 
almost  withdrew  the  question.  The  poor  young 
man  had  gone  the  colour  of  a  tomato. 

"I  prefer  not  to  answer,"  he  said.  The  rest  of  a 
very  short  interview  was  passed  in  exquisite  dis- 
comfort. Indeed  discomfort,  exquisite  and  other- 
wise, within  a  few  weeks  of  Noel's  return,  had  begun 
to  pervade  all  the  habitual  congregation  of  Pierson's 
church.  It  was  noticed  that  neither  of  the  two  sisters 
attended  Service  now.  Certain  people  who  went 
in  the  sincere  hope  of  seeing  Noel,  only  fell  off  again 
when  she  did  not  appear.  After  all,  she  would  not 
have  the  face !  And  Gratian  was  too  ashamed,  no 
doubt.  It  was  constantly  remarked  that  the  Vicar 
looked  very  grave  and  thin,  even  for  him.  As  the 
rumours  hardened  into  certainty,  the  feeling  towards 
him  became  a  curious  medley  of  sympathy  and 
condemnation.  There  was  about  the  whole  business 
that  which  EngHsh  people  especially  resent.     By 


258  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

the  very  fact  of  his  presence  before  them  every  Sun- 
day, and  his  public  ministrations,  he  was  exhibiting 
to  them,  as  it  were,  the  seamed  and  blushing  face 
of  his  daughter's  private  Hfe,  besides  affording  one 
long  and  glaring  demonstration  of  the  failure  of 
the  Church  to  guide  its  flock.  If  a  man  could  not 
keep  his  own  daughter  in  the  straight  path — ^whom 
could  he  ?  Resign !  The  word  began  to  be  thought 
about,  but  not  yet  spoken.  He  had  been  there  so 
long;  he  had  spent  so  much  money  on  the  church 
and  the  parish;  his  gentle  dreamy  manner  was 
greatly  liked.  He  was  a  gentleman,  and  had  helped 
many  people;  and,  though  his  love  of  music  and 
vestments  had  always  caused  heart-burnings,  yet 
it  had  given  a  certain  cachet  to  the  church.  The 
women,  at  any  rate,  were  always  glad  to  know  that 
the  church  they  went  to  was  capable  of  drawing 
their  fellow  women  away  from  other  churches.  Be- 
sides, it  was  war-time,  and  moral  dehnquency  which 
in  time  of  peace  would  have  bulked  too  large  to  neg- 
lect, was  now  less  insistently  dwelt  on,  by  minds 
preoccupied  by  food  and  air-raids.  Things,  of  course, 
could  not  go  on  as  they  were;  but  as  yet  they  did 
go  on. 


The  talked-about  is  always  the  last  to  hear  the 
talk;  and  nothing  concrete  or  tangible  came  Pier- 
son's  way.  He  went  about  his  usual  routine  with- 
out seeming  change.  And  yet  there  was  a  change, 
secret  and  creeping.     Wounded   almost   to  death 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  259 

himself,  he  felt  as  though  surrounded  by  one  great 
wound  in  others;  but  it  was  some  weeks  before 
anything  occurred  to  rouse  within  him  the  weapon 
of  anger  or  the  protective  impulse. 

And  then  one  day  a  httle  swift  brutahty  shook 
him  to  the  very  soul.  He  was  coming  home  from 
a  long  parish  round,  and  had  turned  into  the  Square, 
when  a  low  voice  behind  him  said: 

"Wot  price  the  httle  barstard?" 

A  cold,  sick  feeling  stifled  his  very  breathing;  he 
gasped,  and  spun  round,  to  see  two  big  loutish  boys 
walking  fast  away.  With  swift  and  stealthy  passion 
he  sprang  after  them,  and  putting  his  hands  on  their 
two  neighbouring  shoulders,  wrenched  them  round 
so  that  they  faced  him,  with  mouths  fallen  open  in 
alarm.    Shaking  them  with  all  his  force,  he  said: 

"How  dare  you — ^how  dare  you  use  that  word?" 
His  face  and  voice  must  have  been  rather  terrible, 
for  the  scare  in  their  faces  brought  him  to  sudden 
consciousness  of  his  own  violence,  and  he  dropped 
his  hands.  In  two  seconds  they  were  at  the  comer. 
They  stopped  there  for  a  second;  one  of  them 
shouted  "Gran'pa";  then  they  vanished.  He  was 
left  with  hps  and  hands  quivering,  and  a  feeling 
that  he  had  not  known  for  years — the  weak  white 
empty  feehng  one  has  after  yielding  utterly  to  sudden 
murderous  rage.  He  crossed  over,  and  stood  leaning 
against  the  Garden  railings,  with  the  thought :  '  God 
forgive  me !  I  could  have  killed  them — I  could 
have  killed  them  ! '  There  had  been  a  devil  in  him. 
If  he  had  had  something  in  his  hand,  he  might  now 


26o  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

have  been  a  murderer.  How  awful !  Only  one  had 
spoken,  but  he  could  have  killed  them  both !  And 
the  word  was  true,  and  was  in  all  mouths — all  low 
common  mouths,  day  after  day,  of  his  own  daughter's 
child!  The  ghastliness  of  this  thought,  brought 
home  so  utterly,  made  him  writhe,  and  grasp  the 
raihngs  as  if  b^  would  have  bent  them. 

From  that  day  on,  a  creeping  sensation  of  being 
rejected  of  men,  never  left  him;  the  sense  of  identi- 
fication with  Noel  and  her  tiny  outcast  became 
ever  more  poignant,  more  real;  the  desire  to  pro- 
tect them  ever  more  passionate;  and  the  feeling 
that  round  about  there  were  whispering  voices, 
pointing  fingers,  and  a  growing  malevolence  was  ever 
more  sickening.  He  was  beginning  too  to  reaKse 
the  deep  and  hidden  truth:  How  easily  the  breath 
of  scandal  destroys  the  influence  and  sanctity  of 
those  endowed  therewith  by  vocation:  how  in- 
valuable it  is  to  feel  untarnished,  and  how  difficult 
to  feel  that  when  others  think  you  tarnished. 

He  tried  to  be  with  Noel  as  much  as  possible; 
and  in  the  evenings  they  sometimes  went  walks 
together,  without  ever  talking  of  what  was  always 
in  their  minds.  Between  six  and  eight  the  girl  was 
giving  sittings  to  Lavendie  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  sometimes  Pierson  would  come  there  and  play 
to  them.  He  was  always  possessed  now  by  a  sense 
of  the  danger  Noel  ran  from  companionship  with 
any  man.  On  three  occasions,  Jimmy  Fort  made 
his  appearance  after  dinner.  He  had  so  Httle  to 
say  that  it  was  difficult  to  understand  why  he  came; 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  261 

but,  sharpened  by  this  new  dread  for  his  daughter, 
Pierson  noticed  his  eyes  always  following  her.  'He 
admires  her,'  he  thought;  and  often  he  would  try 
his  utmost  to  grasp  the  character  of  this  man,  who 
had  Hved  such  a  roving  Hfe.  'Is  he — can  he  be  the 
sort  of  man  I  would  trust  NoUie  to  ? '  he  would  think. 
*0h,  that  I  should  have  to  hope  Uke  this  that  some 
good  man  would  marry  her — my  little  NolHe,  a 
child  only  the  other  day ! ' 

In  these  sad,  painful,  lonely  weeks  he  found  a 
spot  of  something  like  refuge  in  Leila's  sitting-room, 
and  would  go  there  often  for  half  an  hour  when  she 
was  back  from  her  hospital.  That  Httle  black-walled 
room  with  its  Japanese  prints  and  its  flowers,  soothed 
him.  And  Leila  soothed  him,  innocent  as  he  was 
of  any  knowledge  of  her  latest  aberration,  and  per- 
haps conscious  that  she  herself  was  not  too  happy. 
To  watch  her  arranging  flowers,  singing  her  Uttle 
French  songs,  or  to  find  her  beside  him,  Hstening  to 
his  confidences,  was  the  only  real  pleasure  he  knew 
in  these  days.  And  Leila,  in  turn,  would  watch 
him  and  think :  '  Poor  Edward !  He  has  never  Hved ; 
and  never  will,  now ! '  But  sometimes  the  thought 
would  shoot  through  her:  'Perhaps  he's  to  be  envied. 
He  doesn't  feel  what  I  feel,  anyway.  Why  did  I  fall 
in  love  again  ? ' 

They  did  not  speak  of  Noel  as  a  rule,  but  one 
evening  she  expressed  her  views  roundly. 

"It  was  a  great  mistake  to  make  Noel  come  back, 
Edward.  It  was  Quixotic.  You'll  be  lucky  if  real 
mischief  doesn't  come  of  it.     She's  not  a  patient 


262  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

character;  one  day  she'll  do  something  rash.  And, 
mind  you,  she'll  be  much  more  likely  to  break  out 
if  she  sees  the  world  treating  you  badly  than  if  it 
happens  to  herself.  I  should  send  her  back  to  the 
country,  before  she  makes  bad  worse." 

"I  can't  do  that,  Leila.  We  must  live  it  down 
together." 

"Wrong,  Edward.  You  should  take  things  as 
they  are." 

With  a  heavy  sigh  Pierson  answered : 

"I  wish  I  could  see  her  future.  She's  so  attrac- 
tive. And  her  defences  are  gone.  She's  lost  faith, 
and  belief  in  all  that  a  good  woman  should  be. 
The  day  after  she  came  back  she  told  me  she  was 
ashamed  of  herself.  But  since — she's  not  given  a 
sign.  She's  so  proud — my  poor  little  NoUie.  I  see 
how  men  admire  her,  too.  Our  Belgian  friend  is 
painting  her.  He's  a  good  man;  but  he  finds  her 
beautiful,  and  who  can  wonder.  And  your  friend 
Captain  Fort.  Fathers  are  supposed  to  be  blind, 
but  they  see  very  clear  sometimes." 

Leila  rose  and  drew  down  a  bUnd. 

"This  sun,"  she  said.  "Does  Jimmy  Fort  come 
to  you  often?" 

"Oh!  no;   very  seldom.    But  still — I  can  see." 

*You  bat — ^you  blunderer!'  thought  Leila:  *See! 
You  can't  even  see  this  beside  you ! ' 

"I  expect  he's  sorry  for  her,"  she  said  in  a  queer 
voice. 

"Why  should  he  be  sorry?    He  doesn't  know." 

"Oh,  yes!    He  knows;   I  told  him." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  263 

"You  told  him!" 

"Yes,"  Leila  repeated  stubbornly;  "and  he's 
sorry  for  her." 

And  even  then  Hhis  monk'  beside  her  did  not 
see,  and  went  blundering  on. 

"No,  no;  it's  not  merely  that  he's  sorry.  By 
the  way  he  looks  at  her,  I  know  I'm  not  mistaken. 
I've  wondered — ^what  do  you  think,  Leila?  He's 
too  old  for  her;  but  he  seems  an  honourable,  kind 
man." 

"Oh!  a  most  honourable,  kind  man."  But  only 
by  pressing  her  hand  against  her  Hps  had  she 
smothered  a  burst  of  bitter  laughter.  He,  who  saw 
nothing,  could  yet  notice  Fort's  eyes  when  he  looked 
at  Noel,  and  be  positive  that  he  was  in  love  with 
her !  How  plainly  those  eyes  must  speak  1  Her 
control  gave  way. 

"All  this  is  very  interesting,"  she  said,  spurning 
her  words  like  Noel,  "considering  that  he's  more 
than  my  friend,  Edward."  It  gave  her  a  sort  of 
pleasure  to  see  him  wince.  'These  blind  bats!^ 
she  thought,  terribly  stung  that  he  should  so  clearly 
assume  her  out  of  the  running.  Then  she  was  sorry, 
his  face  had  become  so  still  and  wistful.  And  turn- 
ing away,  she  said: 

"Oh !  I  shan't  break  my  heart;  I'm  a  good  loser. 
And  I'm  a  good  fighter,  too;  perhaps  I  shan't  lose." 
And  snapping  off  a  sprig  of  geranium,  she  pressed 
it  to  her  Hps. 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Pierson  slowly;  "I  didn't 
know.     I'm  stupid.     I  thought  }^our  love  for  your 


264  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

poor  soldiers  had  left  no  room  for  other  feel- 
mgs. 

Leila  uttered  a  shrill  laugh.  "What  have  they 
to  do  with  each  other  ?  Did  you  never  hear  of  pas- 
sion, Edward?  Oh!  Don't  look  at  me  hke  that. 
Do  you  think  a  woman  can't  feel  passion  at  my  age? 
As  much  as  ever,  more  than  ever,  because  it's  all 
slipping  away." 

She  took  her  hand  from  her  Hps,  but  a  geranium 
petal  was  left  clinging  there,  like  a  blood-stain. 
"What  has  your  life  been  all  these  years,"  she  went 
on  vehemently — "suppression  of  passion,  nothing 
else !  You  monks  twist  Nature  up  with  holy  words, 
and  try  to  disguise  what  the  veriest  simpleton  can 
see.  Well,  /  haven't  suppressed  passion,  Edward. 
That's  aU." 

"And  are  you  happier  for  that?" 

"I  was;   and  I  shall  be  again." 

A  Httle  smile  curled  Pierson's  lips.  "Shall  be?" 
he  said.  "I  hope  so.  It's  just  two  ways  of  looking 
at  things,  Leila." 

"Oh,  Edward!  Don't  be  so  gentle!  I  suppose 
you  don't  think  a  person  like  me  can  ever  really 
love?" 

He  was  standing  before  her  with  his  head  down, 
and  a  sense  that,  naive  and  bat-like  as  he  was,  there 
was  something  in  him  she  could  not  reach  or  under- 
stand, made  her  cry  out: 

"I've  not  been  nice  to  you.  Forgive  me,  Ed- 
ward !    I'm  so  unhappy." 

"There  was  a  Greek  who  used  to  say:    'God  is 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  265 

the  helping  of  man  by  man.'  It  isn't  true,  but  it's 
beautiful.  Good-bye,  dear  Leila,  and  don't  be  sor- 
rowful." 

She  squeezed  his  hand,  and  turned  to  the  window. 

She  stood  there  watching  his  black  figure  cross 
the  road  in  the  sunshine,  and  pass  round  the  corner 
by  the  raihngs  of  the  church.  He  walked  quickly, 
very  upright;  there  was  something  unseeing  even 
about  that  back  view  of  him;  or  was  it  that  he  saw 
— another  world?  She  had  never  lost  the  mental 
habits  of  her  orthodox  girlhood,  and  in  spite  of  all 
impatience,  recognised  his  sanctity.  When  he  had 
disappeared  she  went  into  her  bedroom.  What  he 
had  said,  indeed,  was  no  discovery.  She  had  known. 
Oh !  She  had  known.  '  Why  didn't  I  accept  Jimmy's 
offer?  Why  didn't  I  marry  him?  Is  it  too  late?' 
she  thought.  'Could  I?  Would  he — even  now?' 
But  then  she  started  away  from  her  own  thought. 
Marry  him !  knowing  his  heart  was  with  this  girl  ? 

She  looked  long  at  her  face  in  the  mirror,  study- 
ing with  a  fearful  interest  the  Httle  hard  lines  and 
markings  there  beneath  their  Ught  coating  of  powder. 
She  examined  the  cunning  touches  of  colouring 
matter  here  and  there  in  her  front  hair.  Were  they 
cunning  enough ?  Did  they  deceive?  They  seemed 
to  her  suddenly  to  stare  out.  She  fingered  and 
smoothed  the  slight  looseness  and  fulness  of  the 
skin  below  her  chin.  She  stretched  herself,  and 
passed  her  hands  do\vn  over  her  whole  form,  search- ' 
ing  as  it  were  for  slackness,  or  thickness.  And  she 
had  the  bitter  thought:    'I'm  all  out.     I'm  doing 


266  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

all  I  can.'    The  lines  of  a  little  poem  Fort  had  showed 
her  went  thrumming  through  her  head: 

"Time,  you  old  gipsy  man 
Will  you  not  stay — 
Put  up  your  caravan 
Just  for  a  day?" 

What  more  could  she  do?  He  did  not  like  to 
see  her  Hps  reddened.  She  had  marked  his  disap- 
provals, watched  him  wipe  his  mouth  after  a  kiss, 
when  he  thought  she  couldn't  see  him.  ^I  needn't !' 
she  thought.  'Noel's  lips  are  no  redder,  really. 
What  has  she  better  than  I?  Youth — dew  on  the 
grass!'  That  didn't  last  long!  But  long  enough 
tp  'do  her  in'  as  her  soldier-men  would  say.  And, 
suddenly,  she  revolted  against  herself,  against  Fort, 
against  this  chilled  and  foggy  country;  felt  a  fierce 
nostalgia  for  African  sun,  and  the  African  flowers; 
the  happy-go-lucky,  hand-to-mouth  existence  of 
those  five  years  before  the  war  began.  High  Con- 
stantia  at  grape  harvest!  How  many  years  ago — 
ten  years,  eleven  years !  Ah !  To  have  before  her 
those  ten  years,  with  him  /  Ten  years  in  the  sun ! 
He  would  have  loved  her  then,  and  gone  on  loving 
her !  And  she  would  not  have  tired  of  him,  as  she 
had  tired  of  those  others.  'In  half  an  hour,'  she 
thought,  'he'U  be  here,  sit  opposite  me;  I  shall  see 
him  struggling,  forcing  himself  to  seem  affectionate ! 
It's  too  humbhng !  But  I  don't  care;  I  want  him !' 
She  searched  her  wardrobe,  for  some  garment  or 
touch  of  colour,  novelty  of  any  sort,  to  help  her. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  267 

But  she  had  tried  them  all — those  little  tricks — 
was  bankrupt.  And  such  a  discouraged,  heavy 
mood  came  on  her,  that  she  did  not  even  'change,^ 
but  went  back  in  her  nurse's  dress  and  lay  down 
on  the  divan,  pretending  to  sleep,  wliile  the  maid 
set  out  the  supper.  She  lay  there  moody  and  mo- 
tionless, trying  to  summon  courage,  feehng  that  if 
she  showed  herself  beaten  she  was  beaten;  knowing 
that  she  only  held^him  by  pity.  But  when  she  heard 
his  footstep  on  the  stairs  she  swiftly  passed  her 
hands  over  her  cheeks,  as  if  to  press  the  blood  out 
of  them,  and  lay  absolutely  still.  She  hoped  that 
she  was  white,  and  indeed  she  was,  with  finger-marks 
under  the  eyes,  for  she  had  suffered  greatly  this 
last  hour.  Through  her  lashes  she  saw  him  halt, 
and  look  at  her  in  surprise.  Asleep,  or — ^ill,  which? 
She  did  not  move.  She  wanted  to  watch  him.  He 
tiptoed  across  the  room  and  stood  looking  down 
at  her.  There  was  a  furrow  between  his  eyes.  '  Ah ! ' 
she  thought,  'it  would  suit  you,  if  I  were  dead,  my 
kind  friend.'  He  bent  a  little  towards  her;  and 
she  wondered  suddenly  whether  she  looked  graceful 
lying  there,  sorry  now  that  she  had  not  changed 
her  dress.  She  saw  him  shrug  his  shoulders  ever  so 
faintly  with  a  puzzled  httle  movement.  He  had 
not  seen  that  she  was  shamming.  How  nice  his 
face  was — ^not  mean,  secret,  callous!  She  opened 
her  eyes,  which  against  her  will  had  in  them  the 
despair  she  was  feehng.  He  went  on  his  knees,  and 
lifting  her  hand  to  his  lips,  hid  them  with  it. 

"Jimmy,"  she  said  gently,  "I'm  an  awful  bore 


268  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

to  you.  Poor  Jimmy !  No !  Don't  pretend !  I 
know  what  I  know !"  'Oh,  God  !  What  am  I  say- 
ing?' she  thought.  'It's  fatal — fatal.  I  ought 
never — !'  And  drawing  his  head  to  her,  she  put 
it  to  her  heart.  Then,  instinctively  aware  that 
this  moment  had  been  pressed  to  its  uttermost, 
she  scrambled  up,  kissed  his  forehead,  stretched 
herself,  and  laughed. 

"I  was  asleep,  dreaming;  dreaming  you  loved 
me.  Wasn't  it  funny?  Come  along.  There  are 
oysters,  for  the  last  time  this  season." 

AU  that  evening,  as  if  both  knew  they  had  been 
looking  over  a  precipice,  they  seemed  to  be  tread- 
ing warily,  desperately  anxious  not  to  rouse  emo- 
tion in  each  other,  or  touch  on  things  which  must 
bring  a  scene.  And  Leila  talked  incessantly  of 
Africa. 

"Don't  you  long  for  the  sun,  Jimmy?  Couldn't 
we  —  couldn't  you  go?  Oh!  why  doesn't  this 
wretched  war  end  ?  All  that  we've  got  here  at  home 
— every  scrap  of  wealth,  and  comfort,  and  age,  and 
art,  and  music,  I'd  give  it  all  for  the  hght  and  the 
sun  out  there.    Wouldn't  you?" 

And  Fort  said  he  would,  knowing  well  of  one 
thing  which  he  would  not  give.  And  she  knew  that, 
as  well  as  he. 

They  were  both  gayer  than  they  had  been  for 
a  long  time;  so  that  when  he  had  gone,  she  fell  back 
once  more  on  to  the  divan,  and  burying  her  face 
in  a  cushion,  wept  bitterly. 


It  was  not  quite  disillusionment  that  Pierson  felt 
while  he  walked  away.  Perhaps  he  had  not  really- 
believed  in  Leila's  regeneration.  It  was  more  an 
acute  discomfort,  an  increasing  loneliness.  A  soft 
and  restful  spot  was  now  denied  him;  a  certain 
warmth  and  allurement  had  gone  out  of  his  life. 
He  had  not  even  the  feehng  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  try  and  save  Leila  by  persuading  her  to  marry 
Fort.  He  had  always  been  too  sensitive,  too  much 
as  it  were  of  a  gentleman,  for  the  robuster  sorts  of 
evangehsm.  Such  dehcacy  had  been  a  stumbling- 
block  to  him  all  through  professional  hfe.  In  the 
eight  years  when  his  wife  was  with  him,  all  had 
been  more  certain,  more  direct  and  simple,  with  the 
help  of  her  sympathy,  judgment,  and  companion- 
ship. At  her  death  a  sort  of  mist  had  gathered  in 
his  soul.  No  one  had  ever  spoken  plainly  to  him. 
To  a  clergyman,  who  does?  No  one  had  told  him 
in  so  many  words  that  he  should  have  married  again 
— that  to  stay  unmarried  was  bad  for  him  physically 
and  spiritually,  fogging  and  perverting  Ufe;  not 
driving  him,  indeed,  as  it  drives  many,  to  intolerance 
and  cruelty,  but  to  that  half-living  dreaminess,  and 
the  vague  imhappy  yearnings  which  so  constantly 
beset  him.    All  these  ceUbate  years  he  had  really 

269 


270  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

only  been  happy  in  his  music,  or  in  far-away  coun- 
try places,  taking  strong  exercise,  and  losing  him- 
self in  the  beauties  of  Nature;  and  since  the  war 
began  he  had  only  once,  for  those  three  days  at 
Kestrel,  been  out  of  London. 

He  walked  home,  going  over  in  his  mind  very 
anxiously  all  the  evidence  he  had  of  Fort's  feeling 
for  Noel.  How  many  times  had  he  been  to  them 
since  she  came  back?  Only  three  times — three 
evening  visits!  And  he  had  not  been  alone  with 
her  a  single  minute!  Before  this  calamity  befell 
his  daughter,  he  would  never  have  observed  any- 
thing in  Fort's  demeanour;  but,  in  his  new  watch- 
fulness, he  had  seen  the  almost  reverential  way  he 
looked  at  her,  noticed  the  extra  softness  of  his  voice 
when  he  spoke  to  her,  and  once  a  look  of  sudden 
pain,  a  sort  of  duUing  of  his  whole  self,  when  Noel 
had  got  up  and  gone  out  of  the  room.  And  the  girl 
herself  ?  Twice  he  had  surprised  her  gazing  at  Fort 
when  he  was  not  looking,  \vith  a  sort  of  brooding 
interest.  He  remembered  how,  as  a  Httle  girl,  she 
would  watch  a  grown-up,  and  then  suddenly  one 
day  attach  herseh  to  him,  and  be  quite  devoted. 
Yes,  he  must  warn  her,  before  she  could  possibly 
become  entangled.  In  his  fastidious  chastity,  the 
opinion  he  had  held  of  Fort  was  suddenly  lowered. 
He,  already  a  free-thinker,  was  now  revealed  as  a 
free-Hver.  Poor  Httle  NolUe!  Endangered  again 
already !  Every  man  a  kind  of  wolf  waiting  to 
j)ounce  on  her ! 

He  found  Lavendie  and  Noel  in  the  drawing- 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  271 

room,  standing  before  the  portrait  which  was  near- 
ing  completion.  He  looked  at  it  for  a  long  minute, 
and  turned  away. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  like  me,  Daddy?" 

"It's  hke  you;  but  it  hurts  me — it  hurts  me.  I 
can't  tell  why." 

He  saw  the  smile  of  a  painter  whose  picture  is 
being  criticised  come  on  Lavendie's  face. 

"It  is  perhaps  the  colouring  which  does  not  please 
you,  monsieur?  " 

"No,  no;  deeper.  The  expression;  what  is  she 
waiting  for?" 

The  defensive  smile  died  on  Lavendie's  Kps. 

"It  is  as  I  see  her,  monsietir  le  cureJ^ 

Pierson  turned  again  to  the  picture,  and  suddenly 
covered  his  eyes.  "She  looks  'fey,'"  he  said,  and 
went  out  of  the  room. 

Lavendie  and  Noel  remained  staring  at  the  pic- 
ture. "Fey?  What  does  that  mean,  mademoi- 
selle?'' 

"Possessed,  or  something." 

And  they  continued  to  stare  at  the  picture,  till 
Lavendie  said: 

"I  think  there  is  still  a  little  too  much  light  on 
that  ear." 

The  same  evening,  at  bedtime,  Pierson  called 
Noel  back. 

"Nollie,  I  want  you  to  know  something.  In  all 
but  the  name.  Captain  Fort  is  a  married  man." 


272  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

He  saw  her  flush,  and  felt  his  own  face  darkening 
with  colour. 

She  said  calmly:  "I  know;   to  Leila." 

"Do  you  mean  she  has  told  you?" 

Noel  shook  her  head. 

''Then  how?" 

"I  guessed.  Daddy,  don't  treat  me  as  a  child  any 
more.    What's  the  use,  now?" 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair  before  the  hearth,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  By  the  quivering 
of  those  hands,  and  the  movement  of  his  shoulders, 
she  could  tell  that  he  was  stifling  emotion,  perhaps 
even  crying;  and  sinking  down  on  his  knees  she 
pressed  his  hands  and  face  to  her,  murmuring:  "Oh, 
Daddy  dear !    Oh,  Daddy  dear !" 

He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  they  sat  a  long 
time  with  their  cheeks  pressed  together,  not  speak- 
ing a  word. 


VI 

I§ 

The  day  after  that  silent  outburst  of  emotion 
in  the  dramng-room  was  a  Sunday.  And,  obeying 
the  longing  awakened  overnight  to  be  as  good  as 
she  could  to  her  father,  Noel  said  to  him: 

"Would  you  like  me  to  come  to  Church?" 

''Of  course,  NoUie." 

How^  could  he  have  answered  otherwise  ?  To  him 
Church  was  the  home  of  comfort  and  absolution, 
where  people  must  bring  their  sins  and  troubles — 
a  haven  of  sinners,  the  fount  of  charity,  of  forgive- 
ness, and  love.  Not  to  have  beheved  that,  after 
all  these  years,  would  have  been  to  deny  all  his  use- 
fulness in  life,  and  to  cast  a  slur  on  the  House  of 
God. 

And  so  Noel  walked  there  with  him,  for  Gratian 
had  gone  down  to  George,  for  the  week-end.  She 
slipped  quietly  up  the  side  aisle  to  their  empty  pew, 
under  the  pulpit.  Never  turning  her  eyes  from  the 
chancel,  she  remained  unconscious  of  the  stir  her 
presence  made,  during  that  hour  and  twenty  minutes. 
Behind  her,  the  dumb  currents  of  wonder,  disap- 
proval, and  resentment  ran  a  stealthy  course.  On 
the  back  of  that  young  head,  with  the  fair  hair  curl- 
ing in  to  the  neck,  all  eyes  were  fixed  sooner  or  later, 
and  every  mind  became  the  playground  of  judg- 

273 


274  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

ments.  From  every  soul,  kneeling,  standing,  or 
sitting,  while  the  voice  of  the  Service  droned,  sang, 
or  spoke,  a  kind  of  glare  radiated  on  to  that  one 
small  devoted  head,  which  seemed  so  ludicrously 
devout.  She  disturbed  their  devotions,  this  girl 
who  had  betrayed  her  father,  her  faith,  her  class. 
She  ought  to  repent,  of  course,  and  Church  was 
the  right  place;  yet  there  was  something  brazen 
in  her  repenting  there  before  their  very  eyes;  she 
was  too  palpable  a  flaw  in  the  crystal  of  the  Church's 
authority,  too  visible  a  rent  in  the  raiment  of  their 
priest.  Her  figure  focussed  all  the  uneasy  amaze- 
ment and  heart-searchings  of  these  last  weeks. 
Mothers  quivered  with  the  knowledge  that  their 
daughters  could  see  her;  wives  with  the  idea  that 
their  husbands  were  seeing  her.  Men  experienced 
sensations  varying  from  condemnation  to  a  sort  of 
covetousness.  Young  folk  wondered,  and  felt  in- 
clined to  giggle.  Old  maids  could  hardly  bear  to 
look.  Here  and  there  a  man  or  woman  who  had 
seen  Hfe  face  to  face,  was  simply  sorry !  The  con- 
sciousness of  all  who  knew  her  personally  was  at 
stretch  how  to  behave  if  they  came  within  reach  of 
her  in  going  out.  For,  though  only  half  a  dozen 
would  actually  rub  shoulders  with  her,  all  knew 
that  they  might  be,  and  many  felt  it  their  duty  to 
be,  of  that  haK-dozen,  so  as  to  estabhsh  their  atti- 
tude once  for  all.  It  was,  in  fact,  too  severe  a  test 
for  human  nature  and  the  feelings  which  Church 
ought  to  exercise.  The  stillness  of  that  young  figure, 
the  impossibihty  of  seeing  her  face  and  judging  of 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  275 

her  state  of  mind  thereby;  finally,  a  faint  lurking 
shame  that  they  should  be  so  intrigued  and  dis- 
turbed by  something  which  had  to  do  with  sex,  in 
this  House  of  Worship — all  combined  to  produce 
in  every  mind  that  herd-feeling  of  defence,  which 
so  soon  becomes  offensive.  And,  half  unconscious, 
half  aware  of  it  all,  Noel  stood,  and  sat,  and  knelt. 
Once  or  twice  she  saw  her  father's  eyes  fixed  on 
her;  and,  still  in  the  glow  of  last  night's  pity  and 
remorse,  felt  a  kind  of  worship  for  his  thin  grave 
face.  But  for  the  most  part,  her  own  wore  the  ex- 
pression Lavendie  had  translated  to  his  canvas — 
the  look  of  one  ever  waiting  for  the  extreme  moments 
of  life,  for  those  few  and  fleeting  poignancies  which 
existence  holds  for  the  human  heart.  A  look  neither 
himgry  nor  dissatisfied,  but  dreamy  and  expectant, 
which  might  blaze  into  warmth  and  depth  at  any 
moment,  and  then  go  back  to  its  dream. 

When  the  last  notes  of  the  organ  died  away  she 
continued  to  sit  very  still,  without  looking  round. 
There  was  no  second  Service,  and  the  congregation 
melted  out  behind  her,  and  had  dispersed  into  the 
streets  and  squares  long  before  she  came  forth.  After 
hesitating  whether  or  no  to  go  to  the  vestry  door, 
she  turned  away  and  walked  home  alone. 

It  was  this  dehberate  evasion  of  aU  contact  which 
probably  cHnched  the  business.  The  absence  of 
vent,  of  any  escape-pipe  for  the  feelings,  is  always 
dangerous.  They  felt  cheated.  If  Noel  had  come 
out  amongst  all  those  whose  devotions  her  presence 
had  disturbed,  if  in  that  exit,  some  had  shown  and 


276  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

others  had  witnessed  one  knows  not  what  of  a  mani- 
fested ostracism,  the  outraged  sense  of  social  decency- 
might  have  been  appeased,  and  sleeping  dogs  al- 
lowed to  he,  for  we  soon  get  used  to  things;  and, 
after  all,  the  war  took  precedence  in  every  mind 
even  over  social  decency.  But  none  of  this  had 
occurred,  and  a  sense  that  Sunday  after  Sunday 
the  same  httle  outrage  would  happen  to  them,  moved 
more  than  a  dozen  quite  unrelated  persons,  and 
caused  the  posting  that  evening  of  as  many  letters, 
signed  and  unsigned,  to  a  certain  quarter.  London 
is  no  place  for  parish  conspiracy,  and  a  situation 
which  in  the  country  would  have  provoked  meet- 
ings more  or  less  public,  and  possibly  a  resolution, 
could  perhaps  only  thus  be  dealt  with.  Besides,  in 
certain  folk  there  is  ever  a  mysterious  itch  to  write 
an  unsigned  letter — such  missives  satisfy  some  ob- 
scure sense  of  justice,  some  uncontrollable  longing 
to  get  even  with  those  who  have  hurt  or  disturbed 
them,  without  affording  the  offenders  chance  for 
further  hurt  or  disturbance. 

Letters  which  are  posted  often  reach  their  destina- 
tion. 


On  Wednesday  morning  Pierson  was  sitting  in 
his  study  at  the  hour  devoted  to  the  caUs  of  his 
parishioners,  when  the  maid  announced,  "Canon 
Rushbou^ne,  sir,"  and  he  saw  before  him  an  old 
College  friend  whom  he  had  met  but  seldom  in  recent 
years.    His  visitor  was  a  short,  grey-haired  man  of 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  277 

rather  portly  figure,  whose  round,  rosy,  good-hu- 
moured face  had  a  look  of  sober  goodness,  and  whose 
light-blue  eyes  shone  a  little.  He  grasped  Pierson's 
hand,  and  said  in  a  voice  to  whose  natural  heavy 
resonance  professional  duty  had  added  a  certain 
unction : 

"My  dear  Edward,  how  many  years  it  is  since 
we  met !  Do  you  remember  dear  old  Blakeway  ? 
I  saw  him  only  yesterday.  He's  just  the  same.  I'm 
delighted  to  see  you  again,"  and  he  laughed  a  Httle 
soft  nervous  laugh.  Then  for  a  few  moments  he 
talked  of  the  war  and  old  College  days,  and  Pier- 
son  looked  at  him  and  thought:  'What  has  he  come 
for?' 

"You've  something  to  say  to  me,  Alec,"  he  said, 
at  last. 

Canon  Rushbourne  leaned  forward  in  his  chair, 
and  answered  with  evident  effort:  "Yes;  I  wanted 
to  have  a  Httle  talk  with  you,  Edward.  I  hope  you 
won't  mind.    I  do  hope  you  won't." 

"Why  should  I  mind?" 

Canon  Rushbourne's  eyes  shone  more  than  ever, 
there  was  real  friendliness  in  his  face. 

"I  know  you've  every  right  to  say  to  me:  *Mind 
your  own  business.'  But  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
come  as  a  friend,  hoping  to  save  you  from — er — "  he 
stammered,  and  began  again:  "I  think  you  ought 
to  know  of  the  feeling  in  your  parish  that — er — 
that — er — your  position  is  very  delicate.  Without 
breach  of  confidence  I  may  tell  you  that  letters  have 
been  sent  to  headquarters;    you  can  imagine  per- 


278  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

haps  what  I  mean.  Do  believe,  my  dear  friend, 
that  I'm  actuated  by  my  old  affection  for  you; 
nothing  else,  I  do  assure  you." 

In  the  silence,  his  breathing  could  be  heard,  as 
of  a  man  a  little  touched  with  asthma,  while  he 
continually  smoothed  his  thick  black  knees,  his 
whole  face  radiating  an  anxious  kindliness.  The 
sun  shone  brightly  on  those  two  black  figures,  so 
very  different,  and  drew  out  of  their  well-worn  gar- 
ments the  faint  latent  green  mossiness  which  under- 
lies the  clothes  of  clergymen. 

At  last  Pierson  said:  "Thank  you.  Alec;  I  under- 
stand." 

The  Canon  uttered  a  resounding  sigh.  "You 
didn't  realise  how  very  easily  people  misinterpret 
her  being  here  with  you ;  it  seems  to  them  a  kind — 
a  kind  of  challenge.  They  were  bound,  I  think,  to 
feel  that;  and  I'm  afraid,  in  consequence — "  He 
stopped,  moved  by  the  fact  that  Pierson  had  closed 
his  eyes. 

"I  am  to  choose,  you  mean,  between  my  daughter 
and  my  parish  ?  " 

The  Canon  seemed,  with  a  stammer  of  words, 
to  try  and  blunt  the  edge  of  that  clear  question. 

"My  visit  is  quite  informal,  my  dear  fellow;  I 
can't  say  at  aU.  But  there  is  evidently  much  feel- 
ing; that  is  what  I  wanted  you  to  know.  You 
haven't  quite  seen,  I  think,  that " 

Pierson  raised  his  hand.    "I  can't  talk  of  this." 

The  Canon  rose.  "Believe  me,  Edward,  I  53011- 
patliise  deeply.    I  felt  I  had  to  warn  you."    He  held 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  279 

out  his  hand.  "Good-bye,  my  dear  friend,  do  for- 
give me";  and  he  went  out.  In  the  hall  an  adven- 
ture befell  him  so  plump,  and  awkward,  that  he 
could  barely  recite  it  to  Mrs.  Rushbourne  that 
night. 

''Coming  out  from  my  poor  friend,"  he  said,  "I 
ran  into  a  baby's  perambulator  and  that  young 
mother,  whom  I  remember  as  a  little  thing" — ^he 
held  his  hand  at  the  level  of  his  thigh — "arranging 
it  for  going  out.  It  startled  me ;  and  I  fear  I  asked 
quite  foohshly:  'Is  it  a  boy?'  The  poor  young 
thing  looked  up  at  me.  She  has  very  large  eyes, 
quite  beautiful,  strange  eyes.  '  Have  you  been  speak- 
ing to  Daddy  about  me?'  'My  dear  young  lady/ 
I  said,  'I'm  such  an  old  friend,  you  see.  You  must 
forgive  me.'  And  then  she  said:  'x\re  they  going 
to  ask  him  to  resign?'  'That  depends  on  you,*  I 
said.  Why  do  I  say  these  things,  Charlotte?  I 
ought  simply  to  have  held  my  tongue.  Poor  young 
thing;   so  very  young!    And  the  Httle  baby!" 

"She  has  brought  it  on  herself,  Alec,"  Mrs.  Rush- 
bourne  repUed. 


VII 


The  moment  his  visitor  had  vanished,  Pierson 
paced  up  and  down  the  study,  with  anger  rising  in 
his  heart.  His  daughter  or  his  parish !  The  old 
saw,  'An  Englishman's  house  is  his  castle!'  was 
being  attacked  within  him.  Must  he  not  then  har- 
bour his  own  daughter,  and  help  her  by  candid  atone- 
ment to  regain  her  inward  strength  and  peace  ?  Was 
he  not  thereby  acting  as  a  true  Christian,  in  by  far 
the  hardest  course  he  and  she  could  pursue?  To 
go  back  on  that  decision  and  imperil  his  daughter's 
spirit,  or  else  resign  his  parish — the  alternatives 
were  brutal !  This  was  the  centre  of  his  world,  the 
only  spot  where  so  lonely  a  man  could  hope  to  feel 
even  the  semblance  of  home;  a  thousand  little 
threads  tethered  him  to  his  church,  his  parishioners, 
and  this  house — for,  to  Uve  on  here  if  he  gave  up 
his  church  was  out  of  the  question.  But  his  chief 
feehng  was  a  bewildered  anger  that  for  doing  what 
seemed  to  him  his  duty,  he  should  be  attacked  by 
his  parishioners. 

A  passion  of  desire  to  know  what  they  really 
thought  and  felt — these  parishioners  of  his,  whom 
he  had  befriended,  and  for  whom  he  had  worked 
so  long — beset  him  now,  and  he  w^ent  out.  But  the 
absurdity  of  his  quest  struck  him  before  he  had 

280 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  281 

gone  the  length  of  the  Square.  One  could  not  go 
to  people  and  say:  ''Stand  and  deUver  me  your 
inmost  judgments."  And  suddenly  he  was  aware 
of  how  far  away  he  really  was  from  them.  Through 
all  his  ministrations  had  he  ever  come  to  know  their 
hearts?  And  now,  in  this  dire  necessity  for  knowl-  ^. 
edge,  there  seemed  no  way  of  getting  it.  He  went 
at  random  into  a  stationer's  shop;  the  shopman 
sang  bass  in  his  choir.  They  had  met  Sunday  after 
Sunday  for  the  last  seven  years.  But  when,  with 
this  itch  for  intimate  knowledge  on  him,  he  saw  the 
man  behind  the  counter,  it  was  as  if  he  were  looking 
on  him  for  the  first  time.  The  Russian  proverb, 
'The  heart  of  another  is  a  dark  forest,'  flashed  into 
his  mind,  while  he  said: 

"Well,  Hodson,  what  news  of  your  son?" 
"Nothing  more,   Mr.   Pierson,   thank  you,   sir, 
nothing  more  at  present." 

And  it  seemed  to  Pierson,  gazing  at  the  man's 
face  clothed  in  a  short,  grizzHng  beard  cut  rather 
like  his  own,  that  he  must  be  thinking:  'Ah  I  sir, 
but  what  news  of  your  daughter?'  No  one  would 
ever  teU  him  to  his  face  what  he  was  thinking.  And 
buying  two  pencils,  he  went  out.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  road  was  a  bird-fancier's  shop,  kept  by 
a  woman  whose  husband  had  been  taken  for  the 
Army.  She  was  not  friendly  towards  him,  for  it 
was  known  to  her  that  he  had  expostulated  with 
her  husband  for  keeping  larks,  and  other  wild  birds. 
And  quite  dehberately  he  crossed  the  road,  and 
stood  looking  in  at  the  window,  with  the  morbid 


282  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

hope  that  from  this  unfriendly  one  he  might  hear 
truth.    She  was  in  her  shop,  and  came  to  the  door. 

"Have  you  any  news  of  your  husband,  Mrs. 
Cherry?" 

"No,  Mr.  Pierson,  I  'ave  not;  not  this  week." 

"He  hasn't  gone  out  yet?" 

"No,  Mr.  Pierson;    'e  'as  not." 

There  was  no  expression  on  her  face;  perfectly 
blank  it  was.  Pierson  had  a  mad  longing  to  say: 
"For  God's  sake,  woman,  speak  out  what's  in  your 
mind;  tell  me  what  you  think  of  me  and  my 
daughter.  Never  mind  my  cloth!"  But  he  could 
no  more  say  it  than  the  woman  could  tell  him  what 
was  in  her  mind.  And  with  a  "Good  morning" 
he  passed  on.  No  man  or  woman  would  tell  him 
anything,  unless,  perhaps,  they  were  drunk.  He 
came  to  a  public  house,  and  for  a  moment  even 
hesitated  before  it,  but  the  thought  of  insult  aimed 
at  Noel  stopped  him,  and  he  passed  that  too.  And 
then  reality  made  itself  known  to  him.  Though 
he  had  come  out  to  hear  what  they  were  thinking, 
he  did  not  really  want  to  hear  it,  could  not  endure 
it  if  he  did.  He  had  been  too  long  immune  from 
criticism,  too  long  in  the  position  of  one  who  may 
tell  others  what  he  thinks  of  them.  And  standing 
there  in  the  crowded  street,  he  was  attacked  by 
that  longing  for  the  country  which  had  always  come 
on  him  when  he  was  hard  pressed.  He  looked  at  his 
memoranda.  By  stupendous  luck  it  was  almost 
a  blank  day.  An  omnibus  passed  close  by  which 
would  take  him  far  out.    He  climbed  on  to  it,  and 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  283 

travelled  as  far  as  Hendon;  then  getting  down, 
set  forth  on  foot.  It  was  bright  and  hot,  and  the 
May  blossom  in  full  foam.  He  walked  fast  along 
the  perfectly  straight  road  till  he  came  to  the  top 
of  Elstree  Hill.  There  for  a  few  moments  he  stood 
gazing  at  the  school  chapel,  the  cricket-field,  the 
wide  land  beyond.  All  was  very  quiet,  for  it  was 
lunch-time.  A  horse  was  tethered  there,  and  a 
stroUing  cat,  as  though  struck  by  the  tall  black  in- 
congruity of  his  figure,  paused  in  her  progress,  then, 
sHthering  under  the  wicket  gate,  arched  her  back 
and  rubbed  herself  against  his  leg,  crinkJing  and 
waving  the  tip  of  her  tail.  Pierson  bent  dowTi  and 
stroked  the  creature's  head;  but  uttering  a  faint 
miaou,  the  cat  stepped  daintily  across  the  road, 
Pierson  too  stepped  on,  past  the  village,  and  down 
over  the  stile,  into  a  field  path.  At  the  edge  of  the 
young  clover,  under  a  bank  of  hawthorn,  he  lay 
down  on  his  back,  with  his  hat  beside  him  and  his 
arms  crossed  over  his  chest,  like  the  efiigy  of  some 
crusader  one  may  see  carved  on  an  old  tomb. 
Though  he  lay  quiet  as  that  old  knight,  his  eyes 
were  not  closed,  but  fixed  on  the  blue,  where  a  lark 
was  singing.  Its  song  refreshed  his  spirit;  its  pas- 
sionate light-heartedness  stirred  all  the  love  of  beauty 
in  him,  awoke  revolt  against  a  world  so  murderous 
and  uncharitable.  Oh !  to  pass  up  with  that  song 
into  a  land  of  bright  spirits,  where  was  nothing  ugly, 
hard,  merciless,  and  the  gentle  face  of  the  Saviour  radi- 
ated everlasting  love !  The  scent  of  the  Mayflowers, 
borne  down  by  the  sunshine,  drenched  his  senses; 


284  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

he  closed  his  eyes,  and,  at  once,  as  if  resenting  that 
momentary  escape,  his  mind  resumed  debate  with 
startling  intensity.  This  matter  went  to  the  very 
well-springs,  had  a  terrible  and  secret  significance. 
If  to  act  as  conscience  bade  him  rendered  him  mifit 
to  keep  his  parish,  all  was  built  on  sand,  had  no  deep 
reality,  was  but  rooted  in  convention.  Charity, 
and  the  forgiveness  of  sins  honestly  atoned  for — 
what  became  of  them?  Either  he  was  wrong  to 
have  espoused  for  her  straightforward  confession 
and  atonement,  or  they  were  wrong  in  chasing  him 
from  that  espousal.  There  could  be  no  making 
those  extremes  to  meet.  But  if  he  were  wrong, 
having  done  the  hardest  thing  already — ^where  could 
he  turn  ?  His  Church  stood  bankrupt  of  ideals.  He 
felt  as  if  pushed  over  the  edge  of  the  world,  with 
feet  on  space,  and  head  in  some  blinding  cloud.  'I 
cannot  have  been  wrong,'  he  thought;  'any  other 
course  was  so  much  easier.  I  sacrificed  my  pride, 
and  my  poor  girl's  pride ;  I  would  have  loved  to  let 
her  run  away.  If  for  this  we  are  to  be  stoned  and 
cast  forth,  what  living  force  is  there  in  the  religion 
I  have  loved;  what  does  it  all  come  to?  Have  I 
served  a  sham?  I  cannot  and  will  not  beHeve  it. 
Something  is  wrong  with  me,  something  is  wrong — 
but  where — what  ? '  He  rolled  over,  lay  on  his  face, 
and  prayed.  He  prayed  for  guidance  and  deliverance 
from  the  gusts  of  anger  which  kept  sweeping  over 
him;  even  more  for  relief  from  the  feeling  of  personal 
outrage,  of  the  unfairness  of  this  thing.  He  had 
striven  to  be  loyal  to  what  he  thought  the  right, 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  285 

had  sacrificed  all  his  sensitiveness,  all  his  secret 
fastidious  pride  in  his  child  and  himself.  For  that 
he  was  to  be  thrown  out !  Whether  from  prayer, 
or  from  the  scent  and  feel  of  the  clover,  he  found 
presently  a  certain  rest.  Away  in  the  distance  he 
could  see  the  spire  of  Harrow  Church.  The  Church ! 
No !  She  was  not,  could  not  be,  at  fault.  The  fault 
was  in  himself.  'I  am  unpractical,'  he  thought. 
'It  is  so,  I  know.  Agnes  used  to  say  so,  Bob  and 
Thirza  think  so.  They  aU  think  me  unpractical 
and  dreamy.  Is  it  a  sin — I  wonder?'  There  were 
lambs  in  the  next  field;  he  watched  their  gambol- 
lings,  and  his  heart  relaxed;  brushing  the  clover 
dust  off  his  black  clothes,  he  began  to  retrace  his 
steps.  The  boys  were  playing  cricket  now,  and 
he  stood  a  few  minutes  watching  them.  He  had 
not  seen  cricket  played  since  the  war  began;  it 
seemed  almost  other-worldly,  with  the  click  of  the 
bats,  and  the  shrill  young  voices,  under  the  distant 
drone  of  that  sky-homet  threshing  along  to  Hendon. 
A  boy  made  a  good  leg  hit.  "Well  played!"  he 
called.  Then,  suddenly  conscious  of  his  own  in- 
congruity and  strangeness  in  that  green  spot,  he 
turned  away  on  the  road  back  to  London.  To  re- 
sign; to  await  events;  to  send  Noel  away — of  those 
three  courses,  the  last  alone  seemed  impossible. 
*Am  I  really  so  far  from  them,'  he  thought,  Hhat 
they  can  wish  me  to  go,  for  this  ?  If  so,  I  had  better 
go.  It  will  be  just  another  failure.  But  I  won't 
beHeve  it  yet;  I  can't  believe  it.' 

The  heat  was  sweltering,  and  he  became  very 


286  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

tired  before  at  last  he  reached  his  omnibus,  and 
could  sit  with  the  breeze  cooling  his  hot  face.  He 
did  not  reach  home  till  six,  having  eaten  nothing 
since  breakfast.  Intending  to  have  a  bath  and  lie 
down  till  dinner,  he  went  upstairs. 

Unwonted  silence  reigned.  He  tapped  on  the 
nursery  door.  It  was  deserted;  he  passed  through 
to  Noel's  room;  but  that  too  was  empty.  The  ward- 
robe stood  open  as  if  it  had  been  hastily  ransacked, 
and  her  dressing-table  was  bare.  In  alann  he  went 
to  the  bell  and  pulled  it  sharply.  The  old-fashioned 
ring  of  it  jingled  out  far  below.  The  parlour-maid 
came  up. 

"Where  are  Miss  Noel  and  Nurse,  Susan?" 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  in,  sir.  Miss  Noel  left 
me  this  note  to  give  you.    They — I " 

Pierson  stopped  her  with  his  hand.  "Thank 
you,  Susan;  get  me  some  tea,  please."  With  the 
note  imopened  in  his  hand,  he  waited  till  she  was 
gone.  His  head  was  going  round,  and  he  sat  down 
on  the  side  of  Noel's  bed  to  read: 

"Darling  Daddy, 

"The  man  who  came  this  morning  told  me  of  what  is  going 
to  happen.  I  simply  won't  have  it.  I'm  sending  Nurse  and 
baby  down  to  Kestrel  at  once,  and  going  to  Leila's  for  the 
night,  until  I've  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do.  I  knew  it 
was  a  mistake  my  coming  back.  I  don't  care  what  happens 
to  me,  but  I  won't  have  you  hurt.  I  think  it's  hateful  of 
people  to  try  and  injure  you  for  my  fault.  I've  had  to 
borrow  money  from  Susan — six  pounds.  Oh !  Daddy  dear, 
forgive  me. 

"Your  loving  NoLLiE." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  287 

He  read  it  with  unutterable  relief;  at  all  events 
he  knew  where  she  was — poor,  wiKul,  rushing,  lov- 
ing-hearted child;  knew  where  she  was,  and  could 
get  at  her.  After  his  bath  and  some  tea,  he  would 
go  to  Leila's  and  bring  her  back.  Poor  Httle  No] lie, 
thinking  that  by  just  leaving  his  house  she  could 
settle  this  deep  matter !  He  did  not  hurry,  feeling 
decidedly  exhausted,  and  it  was  nearly  eight  before 
he  set  out,  leaving  a  message  for  Gratian,  who  did 
not  as  a  rule  come  in  from  her  hospital  till  past 
nine. 

The  day  was  still  glowing,  and  now,  in  the  cool 
of  evening,  his  refreshed  senses  soaked  up  its  beauty. 
'God  has  so  made  this  world,'  he  thought,  Hhat, 
no  matter  what  our  struggles  and  sufferings,  it's 
ever  a  joy  to  live  when  the  sun  shines,  or  the  moon 
is  bright,  or  the  night  starry.  Even  we  can't  spoil 
it.'  In  Regent's  Park  the  lilacs  and  laburnums  were 
stiU  in  bloom  though  June  had  come,  and  he  gazed 
at  them  in  passing,  as  a  lover  might  at  his  lady. 
His  conscience  pricked  him  suddenly.  Mrs.  Mitchett 
and  the  dark-eyed  girl  she  had  brought  to  him  on 
New  Year's  Eve,  the  very  night  he  had  learned  of 
his  own  daughter's  tragedy — had  he  ever  thought 
of  them  since  ?  How  had  that  poor  girl  fared  ?  He 
had  been  too  impatient  of  her  impenetrable  mood. 
What  did  he  know  of  the  hearts  of  others,  when  he 
did  not  even  know  his  own,  could  not  rule  his  feel- 
ings of  anger  and  revolt,  had  not  guided  his  own 
daughter  into  the  waters  of  safety !  And  Leila ! 
Had  he  not  been  too  censorious  in  thought?    How 


288  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

powerful,  how  strange  was  this  instinct  of  sex,  which 
hovered  and  swooped  on  lives,  seized  them,  bore 
them  away,  then  dropped  them  exhausted  and  de- 
fenceless! Some  munition-wagons,  painted  a  dull 
grey,  lumbered  past,  driven  by  sunburned  youths 
in  drab.  Life-force,  Death-force — ^was  it  aU  one; 
the  great  imknowable  momentum  from  which  there 
was  but  the  one  escape,  in  the  arms  of  their  Heavenly 
Father?  Blake's  little  old  stanzas  came  into  his 
mind: 

"And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space, 
That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of  love; 
And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt  face 
Are  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

"  For  when  our  souls  have  learned  the  heat  to  bear, 
The  cloud  will  vanish,  we  shall  hear  His  voice. 
Saying:  Come  out  from  the  grove,  my  love  and  care, 
And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs  rejoice !" 

Learned  the  heat  to  bear!  Those  lambs  he  had 
watched  in  a  field  that  afternoon,  their  sudden  Httle 
leaps  and  rushes,  their  funny  quivering  wriggling 
tails,  their  tiny  nuzzHng  black  snouts — what  Uttle 
miracles  of  careless  joy  among  the  meadow  flowers ! 
Lambs,  and  flowers,  and  sunhght!  Famine,  lust, 
and  the  great  grey  guns !  A  maze,  a  wilderness; 
and  but  for  faith,  what  issue,  what  path  for  man 
to  take  which  did  not  keep  him  wandering  hope- 
less, in  its  thicket  ?  *  God  preserve  our  faith  in  love, 
in  charity,  and  the  life  to  come ! '  he  thought.  And 
a  blind  man  with  a  dog,  to  whose  neck  was  tied  a 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  289 

Kttle  deep  dish  for  pennies,  ground  a  hurdy-gurdy 
as  he  passed.  Pierson  put  a  shilling  in  the  dish. 
The  man  stopped  playing,  his  whitish  eyes  looked  up. 
"Thank  you  kindly,  sir,  I'll  go  home  now.  Come 
on,  Dick!"  He  tapped  his  way  round  the  comer, 
with  his  dog  straining  in  front.  A  blackbird  hidden 
among  the  blossoms  of  an  acacia,  burst  into  eve- 
ning song,  and  another  great  grey  munition-wagon 
rumbled  out  through  the  Park  gate. 

The  Church-clock  was  striking  nine  when  he 
reached  Leila's  flat,  went  up,  and  knocked.  Sounds 
from  a  piano  ceased;  the  door  was  opened  by  Noel. 
She  recoiled  when  she  saw  who  it  was,  and  said: 

"Why  did  you  come.  Daddy?  It  is  much  better 
not." 

"Are  you  alone  here?" 

"Yes;  Leila  gave  me  her  key.  She  has  to  be  at 
the  hospital  till  ten  to-night." 

"You  must  come  home  with  me,  my  dear." 

Noel  closed  the  piano,  and  sat  down  on  the  divan. 
Her  face  had  the  same  expression  as  when  he  had 
told  her  that  she  could  not  marry  Cyril  Morland. 

"Come,  Nollie,"  he  said;  "don't  be  unreasonable. 
We  must  see  this  through  together." 

"No." 

"My  dear,  that's  childish.  Do  you  think  the 
mere  accident  of  your  being  or  not  being  at  home 
can  affect  my  decision  as  to  what  my  duty  is?" 


290  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"Yes;  it's  my  being  there  that  matters.  Those 
people  don't  care,  so  long  as  it  isn't  an  open 
scandal." 

''NoUie!" 

"But  it  is  so,  Daddy.  Of  course  it's  so,  and  you 
know  it.  If  I'm  away  they'U  just  pity  you  for  hav- 
ing a  bad  daughter.  And  quite  right  too.  I  am  a 
bad  daughter." 

Pierson  smiled.  "Just  like  when  you  were  a 
tiny." 

"I  wish  I  were  a  tiny  again,  or  ten  years  older. 
It's  this  hulf  age —  But  I'm  not  coming  back  with 
you.  Daddy;  so  it's  no  good." 

Pierson  sat  down  beside  her. 

"I've  been  thinking  this  over  aU  day,"  he  said 
quietly.  "Perhaps  in  my  pride  I  made  a  mistake 
when  I  first  knew  of  your  trouble.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  have  accepted  the  consequences  of  my  failure 
then,  and  have  given  up,  and  taken  you  away  at 
once.  After  aU,  if  a  man  is  not  fit  to  have  the  care 
of  souls,  he  should  have  the  grace  to  know  it." 

"But  you  are  fit,"  cried  Noel  passionately; 
"Daddy,  you  are  fit!" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  There  is  something  wanting 
in  me,  I  don't  know  exactly  what;  but  something 
very  wanting." 

"There  isn't.  It's  only  that  you're  too  good — 
that's  why!" 

Pierson  shook  his  head.    "Don't,  Nollie!" 

"I  will,"  cried  Noel.  "You're  too  gentle,  and 
you're  too  good.     You're  charitable,   and  you're 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  291 

simple,  and  you  believe  in  another  world;  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  you,  Daddy.  Do  you  think 
they  do,  those  people  who  want  to  chase  us  out? 
They  don't  even  begin  to  beheve,  whatever  they 
say  or  think.  I  hate  them,  and  sometimes  I  hate 
the  Church;  either  it's  hard  and  narrow,  or  else 
it's  worldly."  She  stopped  at  the  expression  on 
her  father's  face,  the  most  strange  look  of  pain, 
and  horror,  as  if  an  unspoken  treachery  of  his  own 
had  been  dragged  forth  for  his  inspection. 

"You're  talking  wildly,"  he  said,  but  his  Hps 
were  trembling.  "You  mustn't  say  things  like  that; 
they're  blasphemous  and  wicked." 

Noel  bit  her  Hps,  sitting  very  stiff  and  still,  with 
her  fair  cropped  head  against  a  high  blue  cushion. 
Then  she  burst  out  again: 

"You've  slaved  for  those  people  years  and  years, 
and  you've  had  no  pleasure  and  you've  had  no  love; 
and  they  wouldn't  care  that  if  you  broke  your  heart. 
They  don't  care  for  anything,  so  long  as  it  all  seems 
proper.  Daddy,  if  you  let  them  hurt  you,  I  won't 
forgive  you  I" 

"And  what  if  you  hurt  me  now,  NolUe?" 

Noel  seized  his  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  warm 
cheek. 

"Oh,  no !  Oh,  no !  I  don't— I  won't.  Not  again. 
I've  done  that  already." 

"Very  well,  my  dear!  then  come  home  with  me, 
and  we'll  see  what's  best  to  be  done.  It  can't  be 
settled  by  running  away." 

Noel  dropped  his  hand.    "No.    Twice  I've  done 


292  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

what  you  wanted,  and  it's  been  a  mistake.  If  I 
hadn't  gone  to  Church  on  Sunday  to  please  you, 
perhaps  it  would  never  have  come  to  this.  You 
don't  see  things,  Daddy.  I  could  tell,  though  I  was 
sitting  right  in  front.  I  knew  what  their  faces  were 
like,  and  what  they  were  thinking." 

"One  must  do  right,  Nollie,  and  not  mind." 

"Yes;  but  what  is  right?  It's  not  right  for  me 
to  hurt  you,  and  I'm  not  going  to." 

Pierson  imderstood  aU  at  once  that  it  was  useless 
to  try  and  move  her. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  then?" 

"I  suppose  I  shall  go  to  Kestrel  to-morrow. 
Auntie  will  have  me,  I  know;  I  shall  talk  to  Leila." 

"Whatever  you  do,  promise  to  let  me  know." 

Noel  nodded. 

"Daddy,  you  look  awfully,  awfully  tired.  I'm 
going  to  give  you  some  medicine."  She  went  to  a 
little  three-cornered  cupboard,  and  bent  down. 
Medicine!  The  medicine  he  wanted  was  not  for 
the  body;  knowledge  of  what  his  duty  was — that 
alone  could  heal  him ! 

The  loud  popping  of  a  cork  roused  him.  "What 
are  you  doing,  Nollie?" 

Noel  rose  with  a  flushed  face,  holding  in  one  hand 
a  glass  of  champagne,  in  the  other  a  biscuit. 

"You're  to  take  this;  and  I'm  going  to  have  some 
myself." 

"My  dear,"  said  Pierson,  bewildered;  "it's  not 
yours." 

"Drink  it.  Daddy!    Don't  you  know  that  Leila 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  293 

would  never  forgive  me  if  I  let  you  go  home  looking 
like  that.  Besides,  she  told  me  I  was  to  eat.  Drink 
it.  You  can  send  her  a  nice  present.  Drink  it!" 
And  she  stamped  her  foot. 

Pierson  took  the  glass,  and  sat  there  nibbling 
and  sipping.  It  was  nice,  very !  He  had  not  quite 
reahsed  how  much  he  needed  food  and  drink.  Noel 
returned  from  the  cupboard  a  second  time;  she  too 
had  a  glass  and  a  biscuit. 

"I  like  it!"  she  said.  "There,  you  look  better 
already.  Now  you're  to  go  home  at  once,  in  a  cab 
if  you  can  get  one;  and  tell  Gratian  to  make  you 
feed  up,  or  you  won't  have  a  body  at  all;  you  can't 
do  your  duty  if  you  haven't  one,  you  know." 

Pierson  smiled,  and  finished  the  champagne. 

Noel  took  the  glass  from  him.  "You're  my  child 
to-night,  and  I'm  going  to  send  you  to  bed.  Don't 
worry.  Daddy;  it'll  all  come  right."  And,  taking 
his  arm,  she  went  downstairs  with  him,  and  blew 
him  a  kiss  from  the  doorway. 

He  walked  away  in  a  sort  of  dream.  Dayhght 
was  not  quite  gone,  but  the  moon  was  up,  just  past 
its  fuU,  and  the  search-lights  had  begun  their  nightly 
wanderings.  It  was  a  sky  of  ghosts  and  shadows, 
fitting  to  the  thought  which  came  to  him.  The 
finger  of  Providence  was  in  all  this,  perhaps !  Why 
should  he  not  go  out  to  France ?  At  last;  why  not? 
Some  better  man,  who  understood  men's  hearts, 
who  knew  the  world,  would  take  his  place;  and  he 
could  go  where  death  made  all  things  simple,  and 
he  could  not  fail.    He  walked  faster  and  faster,  full 


294  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

of  an  intoxicating  relief.  Thirza  and  Gratian  would 
take  care  of  Nollie  far  better  than  he.  Yes,  surely 
it  was  ordained !  Moonlight  had  the  town  now ; 
and  all  was  steel-blue,  the  very  air  steel-blue;  a 
dream-city  of  marvellous  beauty,  through  which  he 
passed,  exalted.  Soon  he  would  be  where  that  poor 
boy,  and  a  million  others,  had  given  their  lives; 
with  the  mud  and  the  shells  and  the  scarred  grey 
ground,  and  the  jagged  trees,  where  Christ  was 
daily  crucified — there  where  he  had  so  often  longed 
to  be  these  three  years  past.    It  was  ordained ! 

And  two  women  whom  he  met  looked  at  each 
other  when  he  had  gone  by,  and  those  words  Hhe 
blighted  crow '  which  they  had  been  about  to  speak, 
died  on  their  lips. 


VIII 

Noel  felt  light-hearted  too,  as  if  she  had  won 
a  victory.  She  found  some  potted  meat,  spread  it 
on  another  biscuit,  ate  it  greedily,  and  finished  the 
pint  bottle  of  champagne.  Then  she  hunted  for 
the  cigarettes,  and  sat  down  at  the  piano.  She 
played  old  tunes — 'There  is  a  Tavern  in  the  Town,' 
'Once  I  Loved  a  Maiden  Fair,'  'Mowing  the  Bar- 
ley,'  'Clementine,'  'Lowlands,'  and  sang  to  them 
such  words  as  she  remembered.  There  was  a  de- 
licious running  in  her  veins,  and  once  she  got  up  and 
danced.  She  was  kneeling  at  the  window,  looking 
out,  when  she  heard  the  door  open,  and  without 
getting  up,  cried  out: 

"Isn't  it  a  gorgeous  night !  I've  had  Daddy  here. 
I  gave  him  some  of  your  champagne,  and  drank  the 
rest — "  then  was  conscious  of  a  figure  far  too  tall 
for  Leila,  and  a  man's  voice  saying: 

"I'm  awfully  sorry.    It's  only  I,  Jimmy  Fort." 

Noel  scrambled  up.  "Leila  isn't  in;  but  she  will 
be  directly — it's  past  ten." 

He  was  standing  stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the 


room 


Won't  you  sit  down  ?    Oh !  and  won't  you  have 
a  cigarette?" 
"Thanks." 
By  the  flash  of  his  briquette  she  saw  his  face 

295 


296  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

clearly;  the  look  on  it  filled  her  with  a  sort  of  mali- 
cious glee. 

"I'm  going  now,"  she  said.  "Would  you  mind 
telling  Leila  that  I  foimd  I  couldn't  stop?"  She 
made  towards  the  divan  to  get  her  hat.  When  she 
had  put  it  on,  she  foimd  him  standing  just  in  front 
of  her. 

"Noel — ^if  you  don't  mind  me  calling  you  that?'* 

"Not  a  bit." 

"Don't  go;  I'm  going,  myself." 

"Oh,  no!  Not  for  worlds."  She  tried  to  slip 
past,  but  he  took  hold  of  her  wrist. 

"Please;  just  one  minute!" 

Noel  stayed  motionless,  looking  at  him,  while 
his  hand  still  held  her  wrist.    He  said  quietly: 

"Do  you  mind  teUing  me  why  you  came  here?" 

"Oh,  just  to  see  Leila." 

"Things  have  come  to  a  head  at  home,  haven't 
they?" 

Noel  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You  came  for  refuge,  didn't  you?" 

"From  whom?" 

"Don't  be  angry;  from  the  need  of  hurting  your 
father." 

She  nodded. 

"I  knew  it  would  come  to  that.  What  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"Enjoy  myself."  She  was  sa3dng  something 
fatuous,  yet  she  meant  it. 

"That's  absurd.  Don't  be  angry !  You're  quite 
right.  Only,  you  must  begin  at  the  right  end,  mustn't 
you?    Sit  down!" 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  297 

Noel  tried  to  free  her  wrist. 

"No;  sit  down,  please." 

Noel  sat  down;  but  as  he  loosed  her  wrist,  she 
laughed.  This  was  where  he  sat  with  Leila,  where 
they  would  sit  when  she  was  gone.  "It's  awfully 
funny,  isn't  it?"  she  said. 

"Funny?"  he  muttered  savagely.  "Most  things 
are,  in  this  funny  worid." 

The  sound  of  a  taxi  stopping  not  far  off  had  come 
to  her  ears,  and  she  gathered  her  feet  under  her, 
planting  them  firmly.  If  she  sprang  up,  could  she 
slip  by  him  before  he  caught  her  arm  again,  and 
get  that  taxi  ? 

"If  I  go  now,"  he  said,  "will  you  promise  me  to 
stop  till  you've  seen  Leila?" 

"No." 

"That's  foolish.    Come,  promise!" 

Noel  shook  her  head.  She  felt  a  perverse  pleasure 
at  his  embarrassment. 

"Leila's  lucky,  isn't  she?  No  children,  no  hus- 
band, no  father,  no  anything.    Lovely!" 

She  saw  his  arm  go  up  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow. 
"Poor  Leila!"  he  said. 

"Why  are  you  sorry  for  her?  She  has  freedom! 
And  she  has  you  /" 

She  knew  it  would  hurt;  but  she  wanted  to  hurt 
him. 

"You  needn't  envy  her  for  that." 

He  had  just  spoken,  when  Noel  saw  a  figure  over 
by  the  door. 

She  jumped  up,  and  said  breathlessly: 


298  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"Oh,  here  you  are,  Leila!  Father's  been  here, 
and  we've  had  some  of  your  champagne!" 

"Capital !    You  are  in  the  dark !" 

Noel  felt  the  blood  rush  into  her  cheeks.  The 
light  leaped  up,  and  Leila  came  forward.  She  looked 
extremely  pale,  calm,  and  self-contained,  in  her 
nurse's  dress;  her  full  lips  were  tightly  pressed  to- 
gether, but  Noel  could  see  her  breast  heaving  vio- 
lently. A  turmoil  of  shame  and  wounded  pride 
began  raging  in  the  girl.  Why  had  she  not  flown 
long  ago?  Why  had  she  let  herself  be  trapped  like 
this?  Leila  would  think  she  had  been  making  up 
to  him !  Horrible !  Disgusting !  Why  didn't  he — 
why  didn't  some  one,  speak?    Then  Leila  said: 

"I  didn't  expect  you,  Jimmy;  I'm  glad  you 
haven't  been  dull.  Noel  is  staying  here  to-night. 
Give  me  a  cigarette.  Sit  down,  both  of  you.  I'm 
awfully  tired!" 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  leaning  back,  with  her  knees 
crossed;  and  at  that  moment  Noel  admired  her. 
She  had  said  it  beautifully;  she  looked  so  calm. 
Fort  was  hghting  her  cigarette;  his  hand  was  shak- 
ing, his  face  all  sorry  and  mortified. 

"Give  Noel  one,  too,  and  draw  the  curtains, 
Jimmy.  Quick !  Not  that  it  makes  any  difference; 
it's  as  hght  as  day.    Sit  down,  dear." 

But  Noel  remained  standing. 

"What  have  you  been  talking  of?  Love  and 
Chinese  lanterns,  or  only  me?" 

At  those  words  Fort,  who  was  drawing  the  last 
curtain,  turned  roimd;    his  tall  figure  was  poised 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  299 

awkwardly  against  the  wall,  his  face,  unsuited  to 
diplomacy,  had  a  look  as  of  flesh  being  beaten.  If 
weals  had  started  up  across  it,  Noel  would  not  have 
been  surprised. 

He  said  with  painful  slowness: 

*'I  don't  exactly  know;  we  had  hardly  begun, 
had  we?" 

"The  night  is  young,"  said  Leila.  "Go  on  while 
I  just  take  off  my  things." 

She  rose  with  the  cigarette  between  her  Hps,  and 
went  into  the  inner  room.  In  passing,  she  gave 
Noel  a  look.  What  there  was  in  that  look,  the  girl 
could  never  make  clear  even  to  herself.  Perhaps 
a  creature  shot  would  gaze  like  that,  with  a  sort 
of  profoimd  and  distant  questioning,  reproach,  and 
anger,  with  a  sort  of  pride,  and  the  quiver  of  death. 
As  the  door  closed.  Fort  came  right  across  the  room. 

"Go  to  her,"  cried  Noel;  "she  wants  you.  Can't 
you  see,  she  wants  you?" 

And  before  he  could  move,  she  was  at  the  door. 
She  flew  downstairs,  and  out  into  the  moonhght. 
The  taxi,  a  Httle  way  off,  was  just  beginning  to  move 
away;   she  ran  towards  it,  calling  out: 

"Anywhere !  Piccadilly  !"  and  jumping  in,  blotted 
herself  against  the  cusliions  in  the  far  comer. 

She  did  not  come  to  herself,  as  it  were,  for  several 
minutes,  and  then  feeling  she  could  no  longer  bear 
the  cab,  stopped  it,  and  got  out.  Where  was  she? 
Bond  Street!  She  began,  idly,  wandering  down 
its  narrow  length;  the  fullest  street  by  day,  the 
emptiest  by  night.    Oh  !  it  had  been  horrible !    Noth- 


300  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

ing  said  by  any  of  them — ^nothing,  and  yet  every- 
thing dragged  out — of  him,  of  Leila,  of  herself! 
She  seemed  to  have  no  pride  or  decency  left,  as  if 
she  had  been  caught  stealing.  All  her  happy  ex- 
hilaration was  gone,  leaving  a  miserable  reckless- 
ness. Nothing  she  did  was  right,  nothing  turned 
out  well,  so  what  did  it  all  matter?  The  moonlight 
flooding  down  between  the  tall  houses  gave  her  a 
peculiar  heady  feeling.  'Fey'  her  father  had  called 
her.  She  laughed.  'But  I'm  not  going  home,* 
she  thought.  Bored  with  the  street's  length,  she 
turned  off,  and  was  suddenly  in  Hanover  Square. 
There  was  the  Church,  grey-white,  where  she  had 
been  bridesmaid  to  a  second  cousin,  when  she  was 
fifteen.  She  seemed  to  see  it  all  again — ^her  frock, 
the  hhes  in  her  hand,  the  surpHces  of  the  choir,  the 
bride's  dress,  all  moonhght-coloured,  and  unreal. 
*  I  wonder  what's  become  of  her ! '  she  thought.  '  He's 
dead,  I  expect,  like  Cyril!'  She  saw  her  father's 
face  as  he  was  marr>dng  them,  heard  his  voice:  'For 
better,  for  worse,  for  richer,  for  poorer,  in  sickness 
and  in  health,  till  death  do  you  part.'  And  the 
moonhght  on  the  Church  seemed  to  shift  and  quiver 
— some  pigeons  perhaps  had  been  disturbed  up 
there.  Then  instead  of  that  wedding  vision,  she 
saw  Monsieur  Barra,  sitting  on  his  chair,  gazing 
at  the  floor,  and  Chica  nursing  her  doU.  "All  mad, 
mademoiselle,  a  httle  mad.  MilHons  of  men  with 
white  souls,  but  all  a  Httle  tiny  bit  mad,  you  know." 
Then  Leila's  face  came  before  her,  with  that  look 
in  her  eyes.  She  felt  again  the  hot  clasp  of  Fort's 
fingers  on  her  wrist,  and  walked  on,  rubbing  it  with 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  301 

the  other  hand.  She  turned  into  Regent  Street. 
The  wide  curve  of  the  Quadrant  swept  into  a  sky 
of  unreal  blue,  and  the  orange-shaded  lamps  merely- 
added  to  the  unreaKty.  *  Love  and  Chinese  lanterns ! 
I  should  like  some  coffee,'  she  thought  suddenly. 
She  was  quite  close  to  the  place  where  Lavendie 
had  taken  her.  'Shall  I  go  in  there,'  she  thought; 
'why  not?  I  must  go  somewhere.'  She  turned 
into  the  revolving  cage  of  glass.  But  no  sooner 
was  she  imprisoned  there  than  in  a  flash  Lavendie's 
face  of  disgust;  and  the  red-hpped  women,  the  green 
stuff  that  smeUed  of  peppermint  came  back,  fiUing 
her  with  a  rush  of  dismay.  She  made  the  full  circle 
in  the  revolving  cage,  and  came  out  into  the  street 
again  with  a  laugh.  A  tall  young  man  in  khaki 
stood  there.  "HaUo!"  he  said.  "Come  in  and 
dance  !'^  She  started,  recoiled  from  him  and  began 
to  walk  away  as  fast  as  ever  she  could.  She 
passed  a  woman  who  turned  on  her  eyes  which 
seemed  to  scorch.  She  was  like  a  swift  vision  of 
ruin  with  those  eyes,  and  thickly  powdered  cheeks, 
and  loose  red  mouth.  Noel  shuddered  and  fled 
along,  feehng  that  her  only  safety  lay  in  speed.  But 
she  could  not  walk  about  all  night.  There  would 
be  no  train  for  Kestrel  till  the  morning — and  did 
she  really  want  to  go  there,  and  eat  her  heart  out? 
Suddenly  she  thought  of  George.  Why  should  she 
not  go  down  to  him?  He  would  know  what  was 
best  for  her  to  do.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps  below 
the  Waterloo  Column  she  stood  still.  All  was  quiet 
there  and  empty,  the  great  buildings  whitened,  the 
trees  blurred  and  blue;  and  sweeter  air  was  coming 


302  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

across  their  flowering  tops.  The  queer  'fey'  moony 
sensation  was  still  with  her;  so  that  she  felt  small 
and  light,  as  if  she  could  have  floated  through  a 
ring.  Faint  rims  of  Hght  showed  round  the  windows 
of  the  Admiralty.  The  war!  However  lovely  the 
night,  however  sweet  the  lilac  smelt — that  never 
stopped!  She  turned  away  and  passed  out  under 
the  arch,  making  for  the  station.  The  train  of  the 
wounded  had  just  come  in,  and  she  stood  in  the 
cheering  crowd  watching  the  ambulances  rim  out. 
Tears  of  excited  emotion  filled  her  eyes,  and  trickled 
down.  Steady,  smooth,  grey,  one  after  the  other 
they  came  ghding,  with  a  Httle  burst  of  cheers  greet- 
ing each  one.  AU  were  gone  now,  and  she  could 
pass  in.  She  went  to  the  buffet  and  got  a  large  cup 
of  coffee,  and  a  bun.  Then,  having  noted  the  time 
of  her  early  morning  train,  she  sought  the  ladies' 
waiting-room,  and  sitting  down  in  a  corner,  took 
out  her  purse  and  counted  her  money.  Two  pounds 
fifteen — enough  to  go  to  the  hotel,  if  she  liked.  But, 
without  luggage — it  was  so  conspicuous,  and  she 
could  sleep  in  this  corner  aU  right,  if  she  wanted. 
WTiat  did  girls  do  who  had  no  money,  and  no  friends 
to  go  to  ?  Tucked  away  in  the  comer  of  that  empty, 
heavy,  varnished  room,  she  seemed  to  see  the  cruelty 
and  hardness  of  fife  as  she  had  never  before  seen  it, 
not  even  when  facing  her  confinement.  How  lucky 
she  had  been,  and  was !  Everyone  was  good  to  her. 
She  had  nothing — ^no  real  want  or  dangers,  to  face. 
But,  for  women — yes,  and  men  too — who  had  no 
one  to  fall  back  on,  nothing  but  their  own  hands 
and  health  and  luck,  it  must  be  awful.    That  girl 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  303 

whose  eyes  had  scorched  her — perhaps  she  had  no 
one — nothing.  And  people  who  were  bom  ill,  and 
the  millions  of  poor  women,  hke  those  whom  she 
had  gone  visiting  with  Gratian  sometimes  in  the 
poorer  streets  of  her  father's  parish — for  the  first 
time  she  seemed  to  really  know  and  feel  the  sort 
of  Kves  they  led.  And  then,  Leila's  face  came  back 
to  her  once  more — ^Leila  whom  she  had  robbed. 
And  the  worst  of  it  was,  that,  alongside  her  remorse- 
ful sympathy,  she  felt  a  sort  of  satisfaction.  She 
could  not  help  his  not  loving  Leila,  she  could  not 
help  it  if  he  loved  herself !  And  he  did — she  knew 
it !  To  feel  that  anyone  loved  her  was  so  comfort- 
ing. But  it  was  aU  awful !  And  she — the  cause  of 
it !  And  yet — she  had  never  done  or  said  anything 
to  attract  him.  No!  She  could  not  have  helped 
it. 

She  had  begun  to  feel  drowsy,  and  closed  her 
eyes.  And  gradually  there  came  on  her  a  cosey  sen- 
sation, as  if  she  were  leaning  up  against  someone 
with  her  head  tucked  in  against  his  shoulder,  as 
she  had  so  often  leaned  as  a  child  against  her  father, 
coming  back  from  some  long  darkening  drive  in 
Wales  or  Scotland.  She  seemed  even  to  feel  the 
wet  soft  Westerly  air  on  her  face  and  eyehds,  and 
to  sniff  the  scent  of  a  frieze  coat;  to  hear  the  jog 
of  hoofs  and  the  rolling  of  the  wheels;  to  feel  the 
closing  in  of  the  darkness.  Then,  so  dimly  and 
drowsily,  she  seemed  to  know  that  it  was  not  her 
father,  but  someone — someone — then  no  more,  no 
more  at  all. 


DC 

She  was  awakened  by  the  scream  of  an  engine, 
and  looked  around  her  amazed.  Her  neck  had  fallen 
sideways  while  she  slept,  and  felt  horridly  stiff;  her 
head  ached,  and  she  was  shivering.  She  saw  by 
the  clock  that  it  was  past  five.  'If  only  I  could 
get  some  tea !'  she  thought.  *  Anyway  I  won't  stay 
here  any  longer !  *  When  she  had  washed,  and  rubbed 
some  of  the  stiffness  out  of  her  neck,  the  tea  renewed 
her  sense  of  adventure  wonderfully.  Her  train  did 
not  start  for  an  hour;  she  had  time  for  a  walk,  to 
warm  herself,  and  went  down  to  the  river.  There 
was  an  early  haze,  and  all  looked  a  httle  mysterious; 
but  people  were  already  passing  on  their  way  to 
work.  She  walked  along,  looking  at  the  water  flow- 
ing up  under  the  bright  mist  to  which  the  gulls  gave 
a  sort  of  hovering  Ufe.  She  went  as  far  as  Black- 
friars  Bridge,  and  turning  back,  sat  down  on  a  bench 
under  a  plane-tree,  just  as  the  sun  broke  through. 
A  Uttle  pasty  woman  with  a  pinched  yellowish  face 
was  already  sitting  there,  so  still,  and  seeming  to 
see  so  Httle,  that  Noel  wondered  of  what  she  could 
be  thinking.  While  she  watched,  the  woman's  face 
began  puckering,  and  tears  rolled  slowly  down, 
trickling  from  pucker  to  pucker,  till,  summoning 
up  her  courage,  Noel  sidled  nearer,  and  said: 

"  Oh !    What's  the  matter  ?  " 

304 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  305 

The  tears  seemed  to  stop  from  sheer  surprise; 
little  grey  eyes  gazed  round,  patient  little  eyes  from 
above  an  almost  bridgeless  nose. 

"I  'ad  a  baby.  It's  dead  ...  its  father's  dead  in 
France  ...  I  was  goin'  in  the  water,  but  I  didn't 
like  the  look  of  it,  and  now  I  never  will." 

That  'Now  I  never  will,'  moved  Noel  terribly. 
She  sHd  her  arm  along  the  back  of  the  bench  and 
clasped  the  skinniest  of  shoulders. 

''Don't  cry!" 

"It  was  my  first.  I'm  thirty-eight.  I'U  never 
'ave  another.    Oh!    Why  didn't  I  go  in  the  water?" 

The  face  puckered  again,  and  the  squeezed-out 
tears  ran  down.  'Of  course  she  must  cry,'  thought 
Noel;  'cry  and  cry  till  it  feels  better.'  And  she 
stroked  the  shoulder  of  the  Kttle  woman,  whose 
emotion  was  disengaging  the  scent  of  old  clothes. 

"The  father  of  my  baby  was  killed  in  France, 
too,"  she  said  at  last.  The  little  sad  grey  eyes  looked 
curiously  round. 

"Was  'e?     'Ave  you  got  your  baby  still?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes!" 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  It  'urts  so  bad,  it  does.  I'd 
rather  lose  me  'usband  than  me  baby,  any  day." 
The  sun  was  shining  now  on  a  cheek  of  that  humble, 
terribly  patient  face;  its  brightness  seemed  cruel 
perching  there. 

"Can  I  do  anything  to  help  you?"  Noel  mur- 
mured. 

"No,  thank  you,  miss.  I'm  goin'  'ome  now.  I 
don't  live  far.     Thank  you  kindly."    And  raising 


3o6  SAINT'S  PROGRESS  ' 

her  eyes  for  one  more  of  those  half-bewildered  looks, 
she  moved  away  along  the  Embankment  wall.  When 
she  was  out  of  sight,  Noel  walked  back  to  the  station. 
The  train  was  in,  and  she  took  her  seat.  She  had 
three  fellow  passengers,  all  in  khaki;  very  silent 
and  moody,  as  men  are  when  they  have  to  get  up 
early.  One  was  tall,  dark,  and  perhaps  thirty-five; 
the  second  small,  and  about  fifty,  with  cropped, 
scanty  grey  hair;  the  third  was  of  medium  height 
and  quite  sixty-five,  with  a  long  row  of  little 
coloured  patches  on  his  tunic,  and  a  bald,  narrow, 
well-shaped  head,  grey  hair  brushed  back  at  the 
sides,  and  the  thin,  collected  features  and  drooping 
moustache  of  the  old  school.  It  was  at  him  that 
Noel  looked.  When  he  glanced  out  of  the  window, 
or  otherwise  retired  within  himself,  she  Kked  his 
face;  but  when  he  turned  to  the  ticket-collector 
or  spoke  to  the  others,  she  did  not  like  it  half  so 
much.  It  was  as  if  the  old  feUow  had  two  selves, 
one  of  which  he  used  when  he  was  alone,  the  other 
in  which  he  dressed  every  morning  to  meet  the  world. 
They  had  begun  to  talk  about  some  Tribunal  on 
which  they  had  to  sit.  Noel  did  not  listen,  but  a 
word  or  two  carried  to  her  now  and  then. 

"How  many  to-day?"  she  heard  the  old  fellow 
ask,  and  the  Kttle  cropped  man  answering:  "Hun- 
dred and  fourteen." 

Fresh  from  the  sight  of  the  poor  Httle  shabby 
woman  and  her  grief,  she  could  not  help  a  sort  of 
shrinking  from  that  trim  old  soldier,  with  his  thin, 
regular  face,  who  held  the  fate  of  a  'Hundred  and 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  307 

fourteen'  in  his  firm,  narrow  grasp,  perhaps  every 
day.  Would  he  understand  their  troubles  or  wants  ? 
Of  course  he  wouldn't !  Then  she  saw  him  looking 
at  her  critically  with  his  keen,  half-veiled  eyes.  If 
he  had  known  her  secret,  he  would  be  thinking: 
*A  lady  and  act  like  that!  Oh,  no!  Quite — quite 
out  of  the  question !'  And  she  felt  as  if  she  could 
sink  under  the  seat  with  shame.  But  no  doubt  he 
was  only  thinking:  'Very  young  to  be  travelHng 
by  herself  at  this  hour  of  the  morning.  Pretty  too ! ' 
Ah !  If  he  knew  the  real  truth  of  her — ^how  he  would 
stare !  But  why  should  this  utter  stranger,  this 
old  disciplinarian,  by  a  casual  glance,  by  the  mere 
form  of  his  face,  make  her  feel  more  guilty  and 
ashamed  than  she  had  yet  felt?  That  puzzled  her. 
He  was,  must  be,  a  narrow,  conventional  old  man; 
but  he  had  this  power  to  make  her  feel  ashamed, 
because  she  felt  that  he  had  faith  in  his  gods,  and 
was  true  to  them;  because  she  knew  he  would  die 
sooner  than  depart  from  his  creed  of  conduct.  She 
turned  to  the  window,  biting  her  Hps — angry  and 
despairing.  She  would  never — never  get  used  to 
her  position;  it  was  no  good!  And  again  she  had 
the  longing  of  her  dream,  to  tuck  her  face  away 
into  that  coat,  smell  the  scent  of  the  frieze,  snuggle 
in,  be  protected,  and  forget.  'If  I  had  been  that 
poor  lonely  little  woman,'  she  thought,  'and  had 
lost  everything,  I  should  have  gone  into  the  water. 
I  should  have  rushed  and  jumped.  It's  only  luck 
that  I'm  ahve.  I  won't  look  at  that  old  man  again: 
then  I  shan't  feel  so  bad.' 


3o8  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

She  had  bought  some  chocolate  at  the  station, 
and  nibbled  it,  gazing  steadily  at  the  fields  covered 
with  daisies  and  the  first  of  the  buttercups  and  cow- 
slips. The  three  soldiers  were  talking  now  in  care- 
fully lowered  voices.  The  words:  'women,*  'under 
control,'  'perfect  plague,'  came  to  her,  making  her 
ears  bum.  In  the  hypersensitive  mood  caused  by 
the  strain  of  yesterday,  her  broken  night,  and  the 
emotional  meeting  with  the  little  woman,  she  felt 
as  if  they  were  including  her  among  those  'women.' 
'If  we  stop,  I'll  get  out,'  she  thought.  But  when 
the  train  did  stop  it  was  they  who  got  out.  She 
felt  the  old  General's  keen  veiled  glance  sum  her 
up  for  the  last  time,  and  looked  full  at  him  just  for 
a  moment.  He  touched  his  cap,  said:  "Will  you 
have  the  window  up  or  down?"  and  Hngered  to 
draw  it  half-way  up.  His  pimctiliousness  made  her 
feel  worse  than  ever.  WTien  the  train  had  started 
again  she  roamed  up  and  down  her  empty  carriage; 
there  was  no  more  a  way  out  of  her  position  than 
out  of  this  roUing  cushioned  carriage!  And  then 
she  seemed  to  hear  Fort's  voice  saying:  "Sit  down, 
please ! "  and  to  feel  his  fingers  clasp  her  wrist.  Oh  ! 
he  was  nice  and  comforting;  he  would  never  re- 
proach or  remind  her!  And  now,  probably,  she 
would  never  see  him  again. 

The  train  drew  up  at  last.  She  did  not  know 
where  George  lodged,  and  would  have  to  go  to  his 
hospital.  She  planned  to  get  there  at  half  past  nine, 
and  having  eaten  a  sort  of  breakfast  at  the  station, 
went  forth  into  the  town.     The  seaside  was  still 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  309 

wrapped  in  the  early  glamour  which  haunts  chalk 
of  a  bright  morning.  But  the  streets  were  very- 
much  alive.  Here  was  real  business  of  the  war. 
She  passed  houses  which  had  been  wrecked.  Trucks 
clanged  and  shunted,  great  lorries  rumbled  smoothly 
by.  Sea-  and  Air-planes  were  moving  like  great 
birds  far  up  in  the  bright  haze,  and  khaki  was  every- 
where. But  it  was  the  sea  Noel  wanted.  She  made 
her  way  westward  to  a  little  beach;  and,  sitting 
down  on  a  stone,  opened  her  arms  to  catch  the  sun 
on  her  face  and  chest.  The  tide  was  nearly  up,  with 
the  wavelets  of  a  blue  bright  sea.  The  great  fact, 
the  greatest  fact  in  the  world,  except  the  sun;  vast 
and  free,  making  everything  human  seem  small 
and  transitory !  It  did  her  good,  like  a  tranquillis- 
ing  friend.  The  sea  might  be  cruel  and  terrible, 
awful  thu'igs  it  could  do,  and  awful  things  were  being 
done  on  it;  but  its  wide  level  line,  its  never-ending 
song,  its  sane  savour,  were  the  best  medicine  she 
could  possibly  have  taken.  She  rubbed  the  shelly 
sand  between  her  Jfingers  with  absurd  ecstasy;  took 
off  her  shoes  and  stockings,  paddled,  and  sat  drjdng 
her  legs  in  the  sun. 

When  she  left  the  little  beach,  she  felt  as  if  som.e- 
one  had  said  to  her: 

"Your  troubles  are  very  Httle.  There's  the  sun, 
the  sea,  the  air;  enjoy  them.  They  can't  take  those 
from  you." 

At  the  hospital  she  had  to  wait  half  an  hour  in 
a  little  bare  room  before  George  came. 

"NoUie!     Splendid.     I've  got  an  hour.     Let's 


3IO  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

get  out  of  this  cemetery.     We'll  have  time  for  a 
good  stretch  on  the  tops." 

"WeU,  my  dear,"  he  said,  when  they  were  out- 
side the  gates;  ''jolly  of  you  to  have  come  to  me. 
Tell  us  all  about  it." 

When  she  had  finished,  he  squeezed  her  arm.  "I 
knew  it  wouldn't  do.  Your  Dad  forgot  that  he's  a 
pubhc  figure,  and  must  expect  to  be  damned  accord- 
ing. But  though  you've  cut  and  run,  he'll  resign 
aU  the  same,  Nollie." 

''Oh,  no!"  cried  Noel. 

George  shook  his  head. 

"Yes,  he'll  resign,  you'll  see,  he's  got  no  worldly 
sense;  not  a  grain." 

"Then  I  shall  have  spoiled  his  Hfe,  just  as  if — 
oh,  no!" 

"Let's  sit  down  here.    I  must  be  back  at  eleven." 

They  sat  down  on  a  bench,  where  the  green  cliff 
stretched  out  before  them,  over  a  sea  quite  clear 
of  haze,  far  down  and  very  blue. 

"Why  should  he  resign,"  cried  Noel  again,  "now 
that  I've  gone?    He'll  be  lost  without  it  all." 

George  smiled. 

"Found,  my  dear.  He'll  be  where  he  ought  to 
be,  NoUie,  where  the  Church  is,  and  the  Church- 
men are  not — ^in  the  air ! " 

'Don't!"  cried  Noel  passionately. 
'No,  no,  I'm  not  chafiing.    There's  no  room  on 
earth  for  saints  in  authority.   There's  use  for  a  saintly 
symbol,  even  if  one  doesn't  hold  with  it,  but  there's 
no  mortal  use  for  those  who  try  to  have  things  both 


tc- 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  311 

ways — to  be  saints  and  seers  of  visions,  and  yet 
come  the  practical  and  worldly,  and  rule  ordinary- 
men's  lives.  Saintly  example — ^yes;  but  not  saintly 
governance.    You've  been  his  deliverance,  Nollie." 

"But  Daddy  loves  his  Church." 

George  frowned.  "Of  course,  it'll  be  a  wrench. 
A  man's  bound  to  have  a  cosey  feeling  about  a  place 
where  he's  been  boss  so  long;  and  there  is  something 
about  a  Church — the  drone,  the  scent,  the  half 
darkness;  there's  beauty  in  it,  it's  a  pleasant  drug. 
But  he's  not  being  asked  to  give  up  the  drug  habit; 
only  to  stop  administering  drugs  to  others.  Don't 
worry,  Nollie;  I  don't  believe  that's  ever  suited 
him,  it  wants  a  thicker  skin  than  he's  got." 

"But  all  the  people  he  helps?" 

"No  reason  he  shouldn't  go  on  helping  people, 
is  there?  " 

"But  to  go  on  living  there,  without —  Mother 
died  there,  you  know!" 

George  grunted.  "Dreams,  Nollie,  all  round  him; 
of  the  past  and  the  future,  of  what  people  are  and 
what  he  can  do  with  them.  I  never  see  him  without 
a  skirmish,  as  you  know,  and  yet  I'm  fond  of  him. 
But  I  should  be  twice  as  fond,  and  half  as  likely  to 
skirmish,  if  he'd  drop  the  habits  of  authority.  Then 
I  believe  he'd  have  some  real  influence  over  me; 
there's  something  beautiful  about  him,  I  know  that 
quite  well." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Noel  fervently. 

"He's  such  a  queer  mixture,"  mused  George. 
"Clean  out  of  his  age;    chalks  above  most  of  the 


312  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

parsons  in  a  spiritual  sense  and  chalks  below  most 
of  them  in  the  woridly.  And  yet  I  beUeve  he's  in 
the  right  of  it.  The  Church  ought  to  be  a  foriom 
hope,  NoUie;  then  we  should  beheve  in  it.  Instead 
of  that,  it's  a  sort  of  business  that  no  one  can  take 
too  seriously.  You  see,  the  Church  spiritual  can't 
make  good  in  this  age — ^has  no  chance  of  making 
good,  and  so  in  the  main  it's  given  it  up  for  vested 
interests  and  social  influence.  Your  father  is  a 
symbol  of  what  the  Church  is  not.  But  what 
about  you,  my  dear?  There's  a  room  at  my  board- 
ing-house, and  only  one  old  lady  besides  myself, 
who  knits  all  the  time.  If  Grace  can  get  shifted 
we'll  find  a  house,  and  you  can  have  the  baby. 
They'll  send  your  luggage  on  from  Paddington  if 
you  write;  and  in  the  meantime  Grade's  got  some 
things  here  that  you  can  have." 

"I'll  have  to  send  a  wire  to  Daddy." 
"I'll  do  that.    You  come  to  my  diggings  at  half 
past  one,  and  I'll  settle  you  in.    Until  then,  you'd 
better  stay  up  here." 

When  he  had  gone  she  roamed  a  Httle  farther, 
and  lay  down  on  the  short  grass,  where  the  chalk 
broke  through  in  patches.  She  could  hear  a  distant 
rumbUng,  very  low,  travelling  in  that  grass,  the 
long  mutter  of  the  Flanders  guns.  'I  wonder  if  it's 
as  beautiful  a  day  there,'  she  thought.  'How  dread- 
ful to  see  no  green,  no  butterflies,  no  flowers — not 
even  sky — for  the  dust  of  the  shells.  Oh!  won't 
it  ever,  ever  end?'  And  a  sort  of  passion  for  the 
earth  welled  up  in  her,  the  warm  grassy  earth  along 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  313 

which  she  lay,  pressed  so  close  that  she  could  feel 
it  with  every  inch  of  her  body,  and  the  soft  spikes 
of  the  grass  against  her  nose  and  lips.  An  aching 
sweetness  tortured  her,  she  wanted  the  earth  to 
close  its  arms  about  her,  she  wanted  the  answer 
to  her  embrace  of  it.  She  was  alive,  and  wanted 
love.  Not  death — ^not  loneliness — ^not  death !  And 
out  there,  where  the  guns  muttered,  millions  of 
men  would  be  thinking  that  same  thought ! 


PiERSON  had  passed  nearly  the  whole  night  with 
the  relics  of  his  past,  the  records  of  his  stewardship, 
the  tokens  of  his  short  married  Hfe.  The  idea  which 
had  possessed  him  walking  home  in  the  moonlight 
sustained  him  in  that  melancholy  task  of  docketing 
and  destruction.  There  was  not  nearly  so  much  to 
do  as  one  would  have  supposed,  for,  with  all  his 
dreaminess,  he  had  been  oddly  neat  and  business- 
like in  all  parish  matters.  But  a  hundred  times 
that  night  he  stopped,  overcome  by  memories. 
Every  comer,  drawer,  photograph,  paper  was  a 
thread  in  the  long-spun  web  of  his  Ufe  in  this  house. 
Some  phase  of  his  work,  some  vision  of  his  wife  or 
daughters  started  forth  from  each  bit  of  furniture, 
picture,  doorway.  Noiseless,  in  his  slippers,  he  stole 
up  and  down  between  the  study,  dining-room,  draw- 
ing-room, and  anyone  seeing  him  at  his  work  in 
the  dim  Hght  which  visited  the  staircase  from  above 
the  front  door  and  the  upper-passage  window,  would 
have  thought:  *A  ghost,  a  ghost  gone  into  mourn- 
ing for  the  condition  of  the  world.'  He  had  to  make 
this  reckoning  to-night,  while  the  exaltation  of  his 
new  idea  was  on  him;  had  to  rummage  out  the  very 
depths  of  old  association,  so  that  once  for  all  he 
might  know  whether  he  had  strength  to  close  the 
door  on  the  past.     Five  o'clock  struck  before  he 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  315 

had  finished,  and,  almost  dropping  with  fatigue, 
sat  down  at  his  Httle  piano  in  bright  dayhght.  The 
last  memory  to  beset  him  was  the  first  of  all;  his 
honeymoon,  before  they  came  back  to  live  in  this 
house,  already  chosen,  furnished,  and  waiting  for 
them.  They  had  spent  it  in  Germany — the  first 
days  in  Baden-baden,  and  each  morning  had  been 
awakened  by  a  Chorale  played  down  in  the  gardens 
of  the  Kurhaus,  a  gentle,  beautiful  tune,  to  remind 
them  that  they  were  in  heaven.  And  softly,  so 
softly  that  the  tunes  seemed  to  be  but  dreams  he 
began  playing  those  old  Chorales,  one  after  another, 
so  that  the  stilly  sounds  floated  out,  through  the 
opened  window,  puzzHng  the  early  birds  and  cats 
and  those  few  humans  who  were  abroad  as  yet.  .  .  . 

He  received  the  telegram  from  Noel  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  same  day,  just  as  he  was  about  to  set 
out  for  Leila's  to  get  news  of  her;  and  close  on  the 
top  of  it  came  Lavendie.  He  found  the  painter 
standing  disconsolate  in  front  of  his  picture. 

"Mademoiselle  has  deserted  me?" 

"I'm  afraid  we  shall  all  desert  you  soon,  mon- 
sieur." 

"You  are  going?" 

"Yes,  I  am  leaving  here.  I  hope  to  go  to 
France." 

"And  madem/)iselle  ?  ^' 

"She  is  at  the  sea  with  my  son-in-law." 

The  painter  ran  his  hands  through  his  hair,  but 
stopped  them  half-way,  as  if  aware  that  he  was 
being  guilty  of  ill-breeding. 


3i6  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"Mon  dieu!"  he  said.  "Is  this  not  a  calamity 
for  you!  monsieur  le  cure?"  But  his  sense  of  the 
calamity  was  so  patently  limited  to  his  unfinished 
picture  that  Pierson  could  not  help  a  smile. 

"Ah,  monsieur  I '^  said  the  painter,  on  whom 
nothing  was  lost.  ^'Comme  je  suis  egoiste  I  I  show 
my  feeUngs;  it  is  deplorable.  My  disappointment 
must  seem  a  bagatelle  to  you,  who  will  be  so  dis- 
tressed at  leaving  your  old  home.  This  must  be  a 
time  of  great  trouble.  Believe  me,  I  understand. 
But  to  sympathise  with  a  grief  which  is  not  shown 
would  be  an  impertinence,  would  it  not  ?  You  Eng- 
lish gentlefolk  do  not  let  us  share  your  griefs;  you 
keep  them  to  yourselves." 

Pierson  stared.    "True,'*  he  said.   "Quite  true!" 

"I  am  no  judge  of  Christianity,  monsieur,  but  for 
us  artists  the  doors  of  the  human  heart  stand  open, 
our  own  and  others.  I  suppose  we  have  no  pride — 
c'est  tres-indelicat.  Tell  me,  monsieur,  you  would 
not  think  it  worthy  of  you  to  speak  to  me  of  your 
troubles,  would  you,  as  I  have  spoken  of  mine?" 

Pierson  bowed  his  head,  abashed. 

"You  preach  of  universal  charity  and  love,"  went 
on  Lavendie;  "but  how  can  there  be  that  when 
you  teach  also  secretly  the  keeping  of  your  troubles 
to  yourselves?  Man  responds  to  example,  not  to 
teaching;  you  set  the  example  of  the  stranger,  not 
the  brother.  You  expect  from  others  what  you 
do  not  give.  Frankly,  monsieur,  do  you  not  feel 
that  with  every  revelation  of  your  soul  and  feehngs, 
virtue  goes  out  of  you?    And  I  will  tell  you  why, 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  317 

if  you  will  not  think  it  an  offence.  In  opening  your 
hearts  you  feel  that  you  lose  authority.  You  are 
officers,  and  must  never  forget  that.    Is  it  not  so?" 

Pierson  grew  red.  "I  hope  there  is  another  feel- 
ing too.  I  think  we  feel  that  to  speak  of  our  suffer- 
ings or  deeper  feeUngs  is  to  obtrude  oneself,  to  make 
a  fuss,  to  be  self-concerned,  when  we  might  be  con- 
cerned with  others." 

"Monsieur,  au  fond  we  are  all  concerned  with 
self.  To  seem  selfless  is  but  your  particular  way  of 
cultivating  the  perfection  of  self.  You  admit  that 
not  to  obtrude  self  is  the  way  to  perfect  yourself. 
Eh  Men  I  What  is  that  but  a  deeper  concern  with 
self  ?  To  be  free  of  this,  there  is  no  way  but  to  forget 
all  about  oneself  in  what  one  is  doing,  as  I  forget 
everything  when  I  am  painting.  But,"  he  added 
with  a  sudden  smile,  "you  would  not  wish  to  forget 
the  perfecting  of  self — ^it  would  not  be  right  in  your 
profession.  So  I  must  take  away  this  picture,  must 
I  not  ?  It  is  one  of  my  best  works.  I  regret  much 
not  to  have  finished  it." 

"Some  day,  perhaps " 

"Some  day!  The  picture  will  stand  still,  but 
mademoiselle  will  not.  She  wiU  rush  at  something, 
and  behold!  this  face  will  be  gone.  No;  I  prefer 
to  keep  it  as  it  is.  It  has  truth  now."  And  lifting 
down  the  canvas,  he  stood  it  against  the  wall  and 
folded  up  the  easel.  "Bon  soir,  monsieur,  you  have 
been  very  good  to  me."  He  wrung  Pierson's  hand; 
and  his  face  for  a  moment  seemed  all  eyes  and  spirit. 
"Adieu/" 


3i8  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


"Good-bye,"  Pierson  murmured.  ''God  bless 
you!" 

"I  don't  know  if  I  have  great  confidence  in  Him," 
replied  Lavendie,  "but  I  shall  ever  remember  that 
so  good  a  man  as  you  has  wished  it.  To  mademoiselle 
my  distinguished  salutations,  if  you  please.  If  you 
will  permit  me,  I  will  come  back  for  my  other  things 
to-morrow."  And  carrying  easel  and  canvas,  he 
departed. 

Pierson  stayed  in  the  old  drawing-room,  waiting 
for  Gratian  to  come  in,  and  thinking  over  the 
painter's  words.  Had  his  education  and  position 
really  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  be  brotherly? 
Was  this  the  secret  of  the  impotence  which  he  some- 
times felt;  the  reason  why  charity  and  love  were 
not  more  aUve  in  the  hearts  of  his  congregation? 
'God  knows  I've  no  consciousness  of  having  felt 
myself  superior,'  he  thought;  'and  yet  I  would  be 
truly  ashamed  to  tell  people  of  my  troubles  and 
of  my  struggles.  Can  it  be  that  Christ,  if  he  were 
on  earth,  would  count  us  Pharisees,  beUeving  our- 
selves not  as  other  men?  But  surely  it  is  not  as 
Christians  but  rather  as  gentlemen  that  we  keep 
ourselves  to  ourselves.  Officers,  he  called  us.  I 
fear — I  fear  it  is  true.'  Ah,  well !  There  would 
not  be  many  more  days  now.  He  would  learn  out 
there  how  to  open  the  hearts  of  others,  and  his  own. 
Suffering  and  death  levelled  all  barriers,  made  all 
men  brothers.  He  was  still  sitting  there  when  Gra- 
tian came  in;   and  taking  her  hand,  he  said: 

"Noel  has  gone  down  to  George,  and  I  want 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  319 

you  to  get  transferred  and  go  to  them,  Grade.    I'm 
giving  up  the  parish  and  asking  for  a  chaplaincy." 
"Giving  up?    After  all  this  time?    Is  it  because 
ofNoUie?" 

"No,  I  think  not;  I  think  the  time  has  come. 
I  feel  my  work  here  is  barren." 

"Oh,  no !    And  even  if  it  is,  it's  only  because " 

Pierson  smiled.    "Because  of  what,  Gracie?" 
"Dad,  it's  what  I've  felt  in  myself.     We  want 
to  think  and  decide  things  for  ourselves,  we  want 
to  own  our  consciences,  we  can't  take  things  at 
second-hand  any  longer." 

Pierson's  face  darkened.  " Ah ! "  he  said,  "to  have 
lost  faith  is  a  grievous  thing." 

"We're  gaining  charity,"  cried  Gratian. 
"The  two  things  are  not  opposed,  my  dear." 
"Not  in  theory;    but  in  practice  I  think  they 
often  are.    Oh,  Dad !  you  look  so  tired.    Have  you 
reaUy  made  up  your  mind?    Won't  you  feel  lost?" 
"For  a  little.    I  shall  find  myself,  out  there." 
But  the  look  on  his  face  was  too  much  for  Gra- 
tian's  composure,  and  she  turned  away. 

Pierson  went  down  to  his  study  to  write  his  letter 
of  resignation.  Sitting  before  that  blank  sheet  of 
paper,  he  reahsed  to  the  full  how  strongly  he  had 
resented  the  pubUc  condemnation  passed  on  his  own 
flesh  and  blood,  how  much  his  action  was  the  ex- 
pression of  a  purely  mundane  championship  of  his 
daughter;  of  a  mundane  mortification.  'Pride,'  he 
thought.  '  Ought  I  to  stay  and  conquer  it  ? '  Twice 
he  set  his  pen  down,  twice  took  it  up  again.    He 


320  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

could  not  conquer  it.  To  stay  where  he  was  not 
wanted,  on  a  sort  of  sufferance — ^never !  And  while 
he  sat  before  that  empty  sheet  of  paper  he  tried  to 
do  the  hardest  thing  a  man  can  do — to  see  himself 
as  others  see  him;  and  met  with  such  success  as 
one  might  expect — Sharking  at  once  to  the  verdicts, 
not  of  others  at  all,  but  of  his  own  conscience;  and 
coming  soon  to  that  perpetual  gnawing  sense  which 
had  possessed  him  ever  since  the  war  began,  that 
it  was  his  duty  to  be  dead.  This  feeling  that  to  be 
alive  was  unworthy  of  him  when  so  many  of  his 
flock  had  made  the  last  sacrifice,  was  reinforced 
by  his  domestic  tragedy  and  the  bitter  disillusion- 
ment it  had  brought.  A  sense  of  having  lost  caste 
weighed  on  him,  while  he  sat  there  with  his  past 
receding  from  him,  dusty  and  imreal.  He  had  the 
queerest  feeling  of  his  old  Hfe  faUing  from  him, 
dropping  round  his  feet  like  the  outworn  scales  of 
a  serpent,  rung  after  rung  of  tasks  and  duties  per- 
formed day  after  day,  year  after  year.  Had  they 
ever  been  quite  real  ?  Well,  he  had  shed  them  now, 
and  was  to  move  out  into  life  illumined  by  the  great 
reality — death !  And  taking  up  his  pen,  he  wrote 
his  resignation. 


XI 


The  last  Sunday,  sunny  and  bright!  Though 
he  did  not  ask  her  to  go,  Gratian  went  to  every  Ser- 
vice that  day.  And  the  sight  of  her,  after  this  long 
interval,  in  their  old  pew,  where  once  he  had  been 
wont  to  see  his  wife's  face,  and  draw  refreshment 
therefrom,  affected  Pierson  more  than  anything 
else.  He  had  told  no  one  of  his  coming  departure, 
shrinking  from  the  falsity  and  suppression  which 
must  underhe  every  allusion  and  expression  of  regret. 
In  the  last  minute  of  his  last  sermon  he  would  tell 
them !  He  went  through  the  day  in  a  sort  of  dream. 
Truly  proud  and  sensitive,  under  this  social  bhght, 
he  shrank  from  all  alike,  made  no  attempt  to  single 
out  supporters  or  adherents  from  those  who  had 
fallen  away.  He  knew  there  would  be  some,  per- 
haps many,  seriously  grieved  that  he  was  going; 
but  to  try  and  reaHse  who  they  were,  to  weigh  them 
in  the  scales  against  the  rest  and  so  forth,  was  quite 
against  his  nature.  It  was  all  or  nothing.  But 
when  for  the  last  time  of  all  those  hundreds,  he 
mounted  the  steps  of  his  dark  pulpit,  he  showed 
no  trace  of  finaHty,  did  not  perhaps  even  feel  it  yet. 
For  so  beautiful  a  summer  evening  the  congregation 
was  large.    In  spite  of  aU  reticence,  rumour  was  busy 

321 


322  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

and  curiosity  still  rife.  The  writers  of  the  letters, 
anonymous  and  otherwise,  had  spent  a  week,  not 
indeed  in  proclaiming  what  they  had  done,  but  in 
justifying  to  themselves  the  secret  fact  that  they 
had  done  it.  And  this  was  best  achieved  by  speak- 
ing to  their  neighbours  of  the  serious  and  awkward 
situation  of  the  poor  Vicar.  The  result  was  visible 
in  a  better  attendance  than  had  been  seen  since 
summer-time  began. 

Pierson  had  never  been  a  great  preacher,  his  voice 
lacked  resonance  and  phancy,  his  thought  breadth 
and  buoyancy,  and  he  was  not  free  from  the  sing- 
song which  mars  the  utterance  of  many  who  have 
to  speak  professionally.  But  he  always  made  an 
impression  of  goodness  and  sincerity.  On  this  last 
Sunday  evening  he  preached  again  the  first  sermon 
he  had  ever  preached  from  that  pulpit,  fresh  from 
the  honeymoon  with  his  young  wife.  'Solomon  in 
all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these.'  It 
lacked  now  the  happy  fervour  of  that  most  happy 
of  all  his  days,  yet  gained  poignancy,  coming  from 
so  worn  a  face  and  voice.  Gratian,  who  knew  that 
he  was  going  to  end  with  his  farewell,  was  in  a  choke 
of  emotion  long  before  he  came  to  it.  She  sat  wink- 
ing away  her  tears,  and  not  till  he  paused,  for  so 
long  that  she  thought  his  strength  had  failed,  did 
she  look  up.  He  was  leaning  a  little  forward,  seeming 
to  see  nothing;  but  his  hands,  grasping  the  pulpit's 
edge,  were  quivering.  There  was  deep  silence  in 
the  Church,  for  the  look  of  his  face  and  figure  was 
strange,  even  to  Gratian.     When  his  lips  parted 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  323 

again  to  speak,  a  mist  covered  her  eyes,  and  she 
lost  sight  of  him. 

''Friends,  I  am  leaving  you;  these  are  the  last 
words  I  shall  ever  speak  in  this  place.  I  go  to  other 
work.  You  have  been  very  good  to  me.  God  has 
been  very  good  to  me.  I  pray  with  my  whole  heart 
that  He  may  bless  you  all.    Amen!    Amen!" 

The  mist  cleared  into  tears,  and  she  could  see  him 
again  gazing  down  at  her.  Was  it  at  her  ?  He  was 
surely  seeing  something — some  vision  sweeter  than 
reahty,  something  he  loved  more  dearly.  She  fell 
on  her  knees,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  All 
through  the  hymn  she  knelt,  and  through  his  clear 
slow  Benediction :  ''The  peace  of  God,  which  passeth 
all  understanding,  keep  your  hearts  and  minds  in 
the  knowledge  and  love  of  God,  and  of  his  Son  Jesus 
Christ  our  Lord;  and  the  blessing  of  God  Almighty, 
the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  be  amongst 
you  and  remaui  with  you  always."  And  still  she 
knelt  on,  tiU  she  was  alone  in  the  Church.  Then 
she  rose  and  stole  home.  He  did  not  come  in;  she 
did  not  expect  him.  'It's  over,'  she  kept  thmking; 
'aU  over.  My  beloved  Daddy!  Now  he  has  no 
home;  Nolhe  and  I  have  puUed  him  down.  And 
yet  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  perhaps  she  couldn't. 
Poor  Nolhe!  .  ,  .' 


Pierson  had  stayed  in  the  vestry,  talking  with 
his  choir  and  wardens;  there  was  no  hitch,  for  his 
resignation  had  been  accepted,  and  he  had  arranged 


324  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

with  a  friend  to  carry  on  till  the  new  Vicar  was  ap- 
pointed. When  they  were  gone  he  went  back  into 
the  empty  Church,  and  mounted  to  the  organ-loft. 
A  little  window  up  there  was  open,  and  he  stood 
leaning  against  the  stone,  looking  out,  resting  his 
whole  being.  Only  now  that  it  was  over  did  he  know 
what  stress  he  had  been  through.  Sparrows  were 
chirping,  but  sound  of  traffic  had  almost  ceased, 
in  that  quiet  Sunday  hour  of  the  evening  meal. 
Finished !  Incredible  that  he  would  never  come  up 
here  again,  never  see  those  roof-lines,  that  comer  of 
Square  Garden,  and  hear  this  famihar  chirping  of 
the  sparrows.  He  sat  down  at  the  organ  and  began 
to  play.  The  last  time  the  sound  would  roll  out  and 
echo  round  the  emptied  House  of  God.  For  a  long 
time  he  played,  while  the  building  darkened  slowly 
down  there  below  him.  Of  aU  that  he  would  leave, 
he  would  miss  this  most — the  right  to  come  and 
play  here  in  the  darkening  Church,  to  release  emo- 
tional sound  in  this  dim  empty  space  growing  ever 
more  beautiful.  From  chord  to  chord  he  let  himself 
go  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  surge  and  swell  of 
those  sound  waves,  losing  all  sense  of  actuality,  till 
the  music  and  the  whole  dark  building  were  fused 
in  one  rapturous  solemnity.  Away  down  there  the 
darkness  crept  over  the  Church,  till  the  pews,  the 
altar — aU  was  invisible,  save  the  columns,  and  the 
walls.  He  began  playing  his  favourite  slow  move- 
ment from  Beethoven's  Seventh  Symphony — ^kept 
to  the  end,  for  the  visions  it  ever  brought  him.  And 
a  cat,  which  had  been  stalking  the  sparrows,  crept 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  325 

in  through  the  little  window,  and  crouched,  startled, 
staring  at  him  with  her  green  eyes.  He  closed  the 
organ,  went  quickly  down,  and  locked  up  his  Church 
for  the  last  time.  It  was  warmer  outside  than  in, 
and  lighter,  for  dayHght  was  not  quite  gone.  He 
moved  away  a  few  yards,  and  stood  looking  up. 
Walls,  buttresses,  and  spire  were  clothed  in  milky 
shadowy  grey.  The  top  of  the  spire  seemed  to  touch 
a  star.  *  Good-bye,  my  Church ! '  he  thought. 
*  Good-bye,  good-bye!'  He  felt  his  face  quiver; 
clenched  his  teeth,  and  turned  away. 


XII 


When  Noel  fled,  Fort  had  started  forward  to 
stop  her;  then,  realising  that  with  his  lameness  he 
could  never  catch  her,  he  went  back  and  entered 
Leila's  bedroom. 

She  had  taken  off  her  dress,  and  was  standing 
in  front  of  her  glass,  with  the  cigarette  stiU  in  her 
mouth;  and  the  only  movement  was  the  curHng 
of  its  blue  smoke.  He  could  see  her  face  reflected, 
wide-eyed,  pale,  with  a  Httle  spot  of  red  in  each 
cheek,  and  burning  red  ears.  She  had  not  seemed 
to  hear  him  coming  in,  but  he  saw  her  eyes  change 
when  they  caught  liis  reflection  in  the  mirror.  From 
lost  and  blank,  they  became  alive  and  smouldering. 

"Noel's  gone!"  he  said. 

She  answered,  as  if  to  his  reflection  in  the  glass: 

"And  you  haven't  gone  too?  Ah,  no  !  Of  course 
—your  leg!  She  fled,  I  suppose?  It  was  rather  a 
jar,  my  coming  in,  I'm  afraid." 

"No;  it  was  my  coming  in  that  was  the  jar." 

Leila  turned  round.  "Jimmy!  I  wonder  you 
could  discuss  me.  The  rest—"  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders—    "But  that ! " 


a ' 


I  was  not  discussing  you.     I  merely  said  you 
were  not  to  be  envied  for  having  me.    Are  you?" 

326 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  327 

The  moment  he  had  spoken,  he  was  sorry.  The 
anger  in  her  eyes  changed  instantly,  first  to  search- 
ing, then  to  misery.    She  cried  out: 

"I  was  to  be  en\aed.  Oh  !  Jimmy;  I  was!"  and 
flung  herself  face  down  on  the  bed. 

Through  Fort's  mind  went  the  thought:  'Atro- 
cious!' How  could  he  soothe — make  her  feel — 
what?  That  he  loved  her,  when  he  didn't:  that  he 
wanted  her,  when  he  wanted  Noel.  That  he  was 
her  true  and  loving  servant,  when  he  knew  that  he 
was  not.  Atrocious !  He  went  up  to  the  bedside, 
touched  her  timidly,  and  murmured: 

"Leila,  what  is  it?  You're  overtired.  What's 
the  matter,  dear?  I  couldn't  help  the  child's  being 
here.  Why  do  you  let  it  upset  you?  She's  gone. 
It's  nothing.  It's  all  right.  Things  are  just  as  they 
were." 

"Yes!"  came  the  strangled  echo;   "just!" 

He  knelt  down  and  stroked  her  arm.  It  shivered 
under  the  touch,  seemed  to  stop  shivering  and  wait 
for  the  next  touch,  as  if  hoping  it  might  be  warmer; 
shivered  again. 

"Look  at  me !"  he  said.  "What  is  it  you  want? 
I'm  ready  to  do  anything." 

She  turned  and  drew  herself  up  on  the  bed,  screw- 
ing herself  back  against  the  pillow  as  if  for  support, 
with  her  knees  drawn  under  her.  He  was  astonished 
at  the  strength  of  her  face  and  figure,  thus  en- 
trenched. 

"My  dear  Jimmy!"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to 
do  nothing  but  get  me  another  cigarette.    At  my 


328  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

age  one  expects  no  more  than  one  gets."  She  held 
out  her  thumb  and  finger:   "Do  you  mind?" 

Fort  turned  away  to  get  the  cigarette.  With  what 
bitter  restraint  and  cmious  Httle  smile  she  had  said 
that!  But  no  sooner  was  he  out  of  the  room  and 
hunting  blindly  for  the  cigarettes  whose  position 
he  knew  perfectly  well,  than  his  mind  was  filled 
with  an  aching  concern  for  Noel,  fleeing  like  that, 
reckless  and  hurt,  with  nowhere  to  go.  He  found 
the  Httle  pohshed  golden  birchwood  box  which  held 
the  cigarettes,  and  going  back  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  dismiss  the  image  of  the  girl  before  he  again 
reached  Leila.  She  was  sitting  there,  with  her  arms 
crossed,  in  the  stillness  of  one  whose  every  nerve 
and  fibre  was  stretched  taut. 

"Have  one  yourself,"  she  said.  "The  pipe  of 
peace." 

Fort  Ht  the  cigarettes,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed;  and  his  mind  at  once  went  back  to  Noel. 

"Yes,"  she  said  suddenly;  "I  wonder  where  she's 
gone.  Can  you  see  her?  She  might  do  something 
reckless  a  second  time.  Poor  Jimmy!  It  would 
be  a  pity.  And  so  that  monk's  been  here,  and  drunk 
champagne.    Good  idea!    Get  me  some,  Jimmy!" 

Again  Fort  went,  and  with  him  the  image  of  the 
girl.  When  he  came  back  the  second  time,  she  had 
put  on  that  dark  silk  garment  in  which  she  had  ap- 
peared suddenly  radiant  the  fatal  night  after  the 
Queen's  Hall  concert.  She  took  the  wine-glass, 
and  passed  him,  going  into  the  sitting-room. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  she  said.  "Is  your  leg 
hurting  you?" 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  329 

"Not  more  than  usual,'*  and  he  sat  down  beside 
her. 

''Won't  you  have  some?  'In  vmo  Veritas,'  my 
friend." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  taking  her  hand,  said 
humbly:  "I  admire  you,  Leila." 

"That's  lucky.  I  don't  know  anyone  else  who 
would."  And  she  drank  her  champagne  at  a 
draught. 

"Don't  you  wish,"  she  said  suddenly,  "that  I 
had  been  one  of  those  wonderful  New  Women,  all 
brain  and  good  works.  How  I  should  have  talked 
the  Universe  up  and  down,  and  the  war,  and  Causes, 
drinking  tea,  and  never  boring  you  to  try  and  love 
me.    What  a  pity ! " 

But  to  Fort  there  had  come  Noel's  words:  'It's 
awfully  funny,  isn't  it?' 

"Leila,"  he  said  suddenly,  "something's  got  to 
be  done.  So  long  as  you  don't  wish  me  to,  I'll  promise 
never  to  see  that  child  again." 

"My  dear  boy,  she's  not  a  child.  She's  ripe  for 
love;  and — I'm  too  ripe  for  love.  That's  what's 
the  matter,  and  I've  got  to  lump  it."  She  wrenched 
her  hand  out  of  his  and,  dropping  the  empty  glass, 
covered  her  face.  The  awful  sensation  which  visits 
the  true  EngUshman  when  a  scene  stares  him  in 
the  face  spun  in  Fort's  brain.  Should  he  seize  her 
hands,  drag  them  down,  and  kiss  her?  Should  he 
get  up  and  leave  her  alone?  Speak,  or  keep  silent; 
try  to  console;  try  to  pretend?  And  he  did  ab- 
solutely nothing,  his  whole  being  held  in  chancery. 
So  far  as  a  man  can  understand  that  moment  in  a 


330  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

woman's  life  when  she  accepts  the  defeat  of  Youth 
and  Beauty,  he  understood  perhaps;  but  it  was 
only  a  glimmering.  He  understood  much  better 
how  she  was  recognising  once  for  all  that  she  loved 
where  she  was  not  loved. 

'And  I  can't  help  that,'  he  thought  dumbly;  'sim- 
ply can't  help  that!'  Nothing  he  could  say  or  do 
would  alter  it.  No  words  can  convince  a  woman 
when  kisses  have  lost  reality.  Then,  to  his  infinite 
relief,  she  took  her  hands  from  her  face,  and  said: 

"This  is  very  dull.  I  think  you'd  better  go, 
Jimmy." 

He  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  was  too  afraid 
of  falsity  in  his  voice. 

"Very  nearly  a  scene!"  said  Leila.  "My  God! 
How  men  hate  them !  Quite  right,  so  do  I.  I've  had 
too  many  of  them  in  my  time;  nothing  comes  of 
them  but  a  headache  next  morning.  I've  spared 
you  that,  Jimmy.    Give  me  a  kiss  for  it." 

He  bent  down  and  put  his  lips  to  hers.  With 
all  his  heart  he  tried  to  answer  the  passion  in  her 
kiss.  She  pushed  him  away  suddenly,  and  said 
faintly: 

"Thank  you;  you  did  try!" 

Fort  dashed  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  The  sight 
of  her  face  just  then  moved  him  horribly — ^horribly. 
What  a  disgusting  brute  he  felt !  He  took  her  limp 
hand,  put  it  to  his  lips,  and  murmured: 

"I  shall  come  in  to-morrow.  We'll  go  to  the 
theatre,  shall  we?    Good  night,  Leila !    Bless  you  !" 

But,  in  opening  the  door,  he  caught  sight  of  her 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  331 

face,  staring  at  him,  evidently  waiting  for  him  ta 
turn;  the  eyes  had  a  frightened  look.  They  went 
suddenly  soft,  so  soft  as  to  give  his  heart  a  squeeze. 

She  lifted  her  hand,  blew  him  a  kiss,  and  he  saw 
her  smiling.  Without  knowing  what  his  own  lips 
answered,  he  went  out.  Atrocious !  Once  in  the 
moonlight,  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  go 
away,  but,  crossing  to  the  railings,  stood  leaning 
against  them,  looking  up  at  her  windows.  She  had 
been  very  good  to  him.  He  felt  like  a  man  who 
has  won  at  cards,  and  sneaked  away  without  giving 
the  loser  his  revenge.  If  only  she  hadn't  loved  him; 
if  only  it  had  been  a  souUess  companionship,  a  quite 
sordid  business.  Anything  rather  than  this !  What 
was  he,  that  she,  who  had  loved  at  least  two  other 
men  in  her  time,  should  be  so  wretched  because  he 
couldn't  love  her?  English  to  the  backbone,  he 
could  not  divest  himself  of  a  sense  of  guilt.  To  have 
let  it  begin  at  all — and  now  that  it  had  come  to  this, 
to  see  no  way  of  making  up  to  her,  of  straightening 
it  out,  made  him  feel  intensely  mean.  *  Shall  I  go 
up  again?'  he  thought.  For  a  moment  he  seemed 
to  see  the  window-curtain  move.  Then  the  shreds 
of  light  up  there  vanished.  'She's  gone  to  bed'  he 
thought.  'I  should  only  upset  her  worse.  Where 
is  Noel,  now,  I  wonder?  I  shall  never  see  her  again, 
I  suppose.  It's  altogether  a  bad — bad  business. 
My  God,  yes !    A  bad — bad  business ! ' 

And,  painfully,  for  his  leg  was  hurting  him,  he 
walked  away. 


332  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

2§ 

Leila  was  only  too  well  aware  of  a  truth  that  feel- 
ings are  no  less  real,  poignant,  and  important  to 
those  outside  the  ring  fence  of  morahty  than  to 
those  within.  Her  feehngs  were,  indeed,  probably 
even  more  real  and  poignant,  just  as  a  wild  fruit 
has  a  sharper  taste  than  that  of  the  tame  product. 
Opinion — she  knew — ^would  say,  that  having  wil- 
fully chosen  a  position  outside  morality  she  had 
not  half  the  case  for  broken-heartedness  she  would 
have  had  if  Fort  had  been  her  husband.  Opinion 
— she  knew — would  say  she  had  no  claim  on  him; 
indeed,  that  the  sooner  an  illegal  tie  was  broken, 
the  better!  And  yet  she  felt  fully  as  wretched  as 
if  she  had  been  married.  Moreover  she  had  not 
wanted  to  be  outside  morality;  she  had  never  in 
her  hfe  wanted  to  be  that.  She  was  like  those  folk 
who  by  good  and  constant  confession  can  shed  their 
sins  and  start  again  with  a  clear  conscience.  She 
had  never  meant  to  sin,  merely  to  love,  and  when 
she  was  in  love,  the  thing  was  so  important  to  her 
that  nothing  else  mattered  for  the  moment.  But, 
if  she  was  a  gambler,  she  had  so  far  always  paid 
up.  Only,  this  time  the  stakes  for  which  she  had 
played  were  the  heaviest  a  woman  can  put  down, 
or  rather,  that  Time  and  Fate  can  put  down  for 
her.  It  was  her  last  throw;  and  she  knew  it.  So 
long  as  a  woman  believed  in  her  attraction,  there 
was  hope,  even  when  the  curtain  fell  on  a  love-affair ! 
But  for  Leila  the  lamp  of  behef  had  suddenly  gone 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  333 

out,  and  when  this  next  curtain  dropped  she  felt 
that  she  must  sit  in  the  dark  until  old  age  made  her 
indifferent.  And  between  forty-four  and  real  old 
age  a  gulf  is  fixed.  This,  too,  was  the  first  time 
a  man  had  tired  of  her  before  she  was  ready  for  it. 
Why !  he  had  been  tired  before  he  began,  or  so  she 
felt,  sitting  there  when  he  had  gone.  In  one  swift 
moment  as  of  a  drowning  person,  she  seemed  to 
see  again  all  the  passages  of  their  companionship, 
and  to  know  with  certainty  that  it  had  never  been 
real  or  deep  in  him — ^never  a  genuine  flame.  A  fever 
of  shame  ran,  consuming,  in  her  veins.  She  buried 
her  face  deep  in  the  cushions.  The  girl,  who  had 
sat  just  here  where  she  was  sitting,  had  possessed 
his  real  heart  all  the  time.  Why  had  she  ever  gone 
over  her  reHcs,  and  found  those  two  little  letters, 
from  him  and  Edward?  And  with  a  laugh  she 
thought:  'I  put  my  money  on  the  wrong  horse; 
I  ought  to  have  backed  Edward.  If  I  had  tried, 
perhaps  I  could  have  turned  that  poor  monk's  head. 
If  I  had  never  seen  Jimmy  again;  if  I  had  torn  his 
letter  up,  I  could  have  made  poor  Edward  love  me !' 
But  ifs,  ifs !  What  folly !  Things  happened  as  they 
must!  And,  starting  up,  she  began  to  roam  the 
little  room.  One  thing  was  certain — ^without  Jimmy 
she  would  be  wretched,  and  with  him  she  would 
be  wretched  too !  '  I  can't  bear  to  see  his  face,'  she 
thought;  'and  I  can't  Uve  without  him !  It's  really 
funny ! '  The  thought  of  her  hospital  filled  her  with 
absolute  loathing.  To  go  there  day  after  day  with 
this  despair  eating  at  her  heart — she  simply  could 


334  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

not.  She  went  over  her  resources.  She  had  more 
money  than  she  thought;  Jinmiy  had  given  her  a 
Christmas  present  of  five  hundred  poimds.  She 
had  wanted  to  tear  up  the  cheque,  or  force  him  to 
take  it  back;  but  the  realities  of  the  previous  five 
years  had  prevailed  with  her,  and  she  had  banked 
it.  She  was  glad  now.  She  had  not  to  consider 
money.  Her  mind  sought  escape  in  the  past.  She 
thought  of  her  first  husband,  Ronny  Fane;  of  their 
mosquito-curtained  rooms  in  that  ghastly  Madras 
heat.  Poor  Ronny!  Wliat  a  pale,  cynical  young 
ghost  started  up  under  that  name.  She  thought 
of  L5mch,  his  horsey,  matter-of-fact  solidity.  She 
had  loved  them  both — ^for  a  time.  She  thought  of 
the  veldt,  of  Constantia,  and  the  loom  of  Table 
Mountain  under  the  stars;  and — the  first  sight  of 
Jinmiy,  his  straight  look,  the  curve  of  his  crisp  head, 
the  kind,  fighting-schoolboy  frankness  of  his  face. 
Even  now,  after  all  those  months  of  their  companion- 
ship, that  long-ago  evening  at  grape  harvest,  when 
she  sang  to  him  under  the  scented  creepers,  was 
the  memory  of  him  most  charged  with  real  feeling. 
That  one  evening  at  any  rate  he  had  longed  for  her, 
eleven  years  ago,  when  she  was  in  her  prime.  She 
could  have  held  her  own  then;  Noel  would  have 
come  in  vain.  To  think  that  this  girl  had  still  fifteen 
years  before  she  would  be  even  in  her  prime.  Fif- 
teen years  to  bewitch  men;  and  then  another  ten 
before  she  was  on  the  shelf.  Why !  if  Noel  married 
Jimmy,  he  would  be  an  old  man  doting  on  her  still, 
by  the  time  she  had  reached  this  fatal  age  of  forty- 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  335 

four.  She  felt  as  if  she  must  scream,  and,  stuffing 
her  handkerchief  into  her  mouth,  turned  out  the 
light,  to  get  rid  of  the  sight  of  her  face  in  the  glass 
over  the  mantel-shelf.  Darkness  cooled  her,  a  Httle. 
She  pulled  aside  the  curtains,  and  let  in  the  moon- 
light. Jimmy  and  that  girl  were  out  in  it  somewhere, 
seeking  each  other,  if  not  in  body,  then  in  thought. 
And  soon,  somehow,  somewhere,  they  would  come 
together.  That  was  clear  as  the  shape  of  that  great, 
hard,  ugly  church,  which  hurt  her  eyes  whenever 
she  looked  out.  They  would  come  together  because 
Fate  meant  them  to!  Fate  which  had  given  her 
young  cousin  a  likeness  to  herseh;  placed  her,  too, 
in  just  such  a  hopeless  position  as  appealed  to  Jimmy, 
and  gave  him  a  chance  against  younger  m.en.  She 
saw  it  with  bitter  surety.  Good  gamblers  cut  their 
losses!  Yes,  and  proud  women  did  not  keep  un- 
wilHng  lovers !  If  she  had  even  an  outside  chance, 
she  would  trail  her  pride,  drag  it  through  the  mud, 
through  thorns !  But  she  had  not.  And  she  clenched 
her  fist,  and  struck  out  at  the  night,  as  though  at 
the  face  of  that  Fate  which  one  could  never  reach — 
impalpable,  remorseless,  surrounding  Fate  with  its 
faint  mocking  smile,  devoid  of  all  human  warmth. 
Nothing,  nothing  could  set  back  the  clock,  and  give 
her  what  this  girl  had.  Time  had  'done  her  in,' 
as  it  'did  in'  every  woman,  one  by  one.  And  she 
saw  herself  going  down  the  years,  powdering  a  little 
more,  painting  a  little  more,  touching  up  her  hair, 
till  it  was  all  artifice,  holding  on  by  every  httle  de- 
vice— and  all,  to  what  end?    To  see  his  face  get 


336  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

colder  and  colder,  hear  Ms  voice  more  and  more 
constrained  to  gentleness;  and  know  that  under- 
neath, aversion  was  growing  with  the  thought:  'You 
are  keeping  me  from  Hf e,  and  love ! '  till  one  evening, 
in  sheer  nerve-break,  she  would  say  or  do  some  fear- 
ful thing,  and  he  would  come  no  more.  '  No,  Jimmy ! ' 
she  thought;  'find  her,  and  stay  with  her.  You're 
not  worth  all  that!'  And  pulling- to  the  curtains, 
as  though  with  that  gesture  she  could  shut  out  her 
creeping  fate,  she  turned  up  the  light  and  sat  down 
at  her  writing-table.  She  stayed  some  minutes 
motionless,  her  chin  resting  on  her  hands,  the  dark 
silk  fallen  down  from  her  arms.  A  little  mirror, 
framed  in  curiously  carved  ivory,  picked  up  by  her 
in  an  Indian  bazaar  twenty-five  years  ago,  hung  on 
a  level  with  her  face  and  gave  that  face  back  to  her. 
'I'm  not  ugly,'  she  thought  passionately,  'I'm  not. 
I  still  have  some  looks  left.  If  only  that  girl  hadn't 
come.  And  it  was  all  my  doing.  Oh,  what  made 
me  write  to  both  of  them,  Edward  and  Jimmy?' 
She  turned  the  mirror  aside,  and  took  up  a  pen. 

"My  dear  Jimmy,"  she  wrote: 

"It  will  be  better  for  us  both  if  you  take  a  holiday  from 
here.  Don't  come  again  till  I  write  for  you.  I'm  sorry  I 
made  you  so  much  disturbance  to-night.  Have  a  good  time, 
and  a  good  rest;  and  don't  worry. 

"Your " 

So  far  she  had  written  when  a  tear  dropped  on 
the  page,  and  she  had  to  tear  it  up  and  begin  again. 
This  time  she  wrote  to  the  end — "Your  Leila." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  337 

'I  must  post  it  now,'  she  thought,  'or  he  may  not 
get  it  before  to-morrow  evening.  I  couldn't  go 
through  with  this  again.'  She  hurried  out  with  it 
and  sHpped  it  in  a  pillar  box.  The  night  smelled 
good,  it  smelled  of  flowers;  and,  hastening  back 
away  from  it,  she  lay  down,  and  stayed  awake 
for  hours,  tossing,  and  staring  at  the  dark. 


XIII 


Leila  had  pluck,  but  little  patience.  Difficult 
to  say  which  helped  her  most  in  the  next  few  days. 
Her  one  thought  was  to  get  away,  and  she  at  once 
began  settling  up  her  affairs  and  getting  a  permit 
to  return  to  South  Africa.  The  excitements  of  pur- 
chase and  preparation  were  as  good  an  anodyne 
as  she  could  have  taken.  The  perils  of  the  sea  were 
at  fuU  just  then,  and  the  prospect  of  danger  gave 
her  a  sort  of  pleasure.  'If  I  go  down,'  she  thought, 
'all  the  better;  brisk,  instead  of  long  and  dreary.' 
But  when  she  had  the  permit  and  her  cabin  was 
booked,  the  irrevocabihty  of  her  step  came  to  her 
with  full  force.  Should  she  see  him  again  or  no? 
Her  boat  started  in  three  days,  and  she  must  de- 
cide. If  in  compunction  he  were  to  be  affectionate, 
she  knew  she  would  never  keep  to  her  decision,  and 
then  the  horror  would  begin  again,  till  again  she 
was  forced  to  this  same  action.  She  let  the  hours 
go  and  go  till  the  very  day  before,  when  the  ache 
to  see  him  and  the  dread  of  it  had  become  so  un- 
bearable that  she  could  not  keep  quiet.  Late  that 
afternoon — everything,  to  the  last  label,  ready — 
she  went  out,  still  undecided.  An  itch  to  turn  the 
dagger  in  her  wound,  to  know  what  had  become  of 
Noel,  took  her  to  Edward's  house.    Almost  uncon- 

338 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  339 

sciously  she  had  put  on  her  prettiest  frock,  and 
spent  an  hour  before  the  glass.  A  feverishness  of 
soul,  more  than  of  body,  which  had  hung  about  her 
ever  since  that  night,  gave  her  colour.  She  looked 
her  prettiest;  and  she  bought  a  gardenia  at  a  shop 
in  Baker  Street  and  fastened  it  in  her  dress.  Reach- 
ing the  old  Square,  she  was  astonished  to  see  a  board 
up  with  the  words:  "To  let,"  though  the  house 
stUl  looked  inhabited.  She  rang,  and  was  shown 
into  the  drawing-room.  She  had  only  twice  been 
in  this  house  before;  and  for  some  reason,  perhaps 
because  of  her  own  unhappiness,  the  old,  rather 
shabby  room  struck  her  as  extraordinarily  pathetic, 
as  if  inhabited  by  the  past.  'I  wonder  what  his 
wife  was  like,'  she  thought.  And  then  she  saw, 
hanging  against  a  strip  of  black  velvet  on  the  wall, 
that  faded  colour  sketch  of  the  slender  young  woman 
leaning  forward,  with  her  hands  crossed  in  her  lap. 
The  colouring  was  lavender  and  old  ivory,  with 
faint  touches  of  rose.  The  eyes,  so  living,  were  a 
little  like  Gratian's;  the  whole  face  delicate,  eager, 
and  good.  'Yes,'  she  thought,  'he  must  have  loved 
you  very  much.  To  say  good-bye  must  have  been 
hard.'  She  was  still  standing  before  it  when  Pier- 
son  came  in. 

"That's  a  dear  face,  Edward,  I've  come  to  say 
good-bye.  I'm  leaving  for  South  Africa  to-morrow." 
And,  as  her  hand  touched  his,  she  thought:  'I  must 
have  been  mad  to  think  I  could  ever  have  made 
him  love  me.' 

"Are  you — are  you  leaving  him?" 


340  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Leila  nodded. 

"That's  very  brave,  and  wonderful." 

"Oh!  no.  Needs  must  when  the  devil  drives — 
that's  all.  I  don't  give  up  happiness  of  my  own 
accord.  That's  not  within  a  hundred  miles  of  the 
truth.  What  I  shall  become,  I  don't  know, 
but  nothing  better,  you  may  be  sure.  I  give  up 
because  I  can't  keep,  and  you  know  why.  Where 
is  Noel?" 

"Down  at  the  sea,  with  George  and  Gratian." 

He  was  looking  at  her  in  wonder;  and  the  pained, 
puzzled  expression  on  his  face  angered  her. 

"I  see  the  house  is  to  let.  Who'd  have  thought 
a  child  like  that  could  root  up  two  fossils  like  us? 
Never  mind,  Edward,  there's  the  same  blood  in 
us.  We'll  keep  our  ends  up  in  our  own  ways,  won't 
we?    Where  are  you  going?" 

"They'll  give  me  a  chaplaincy  in  the  East,  I 
think." 

For  a  wild  moment  Leila  thought:  'Shall  I  offer 
to  go  with  him — the  two  lost  dogs  together  ? '  And 
she  looked  at  him  with  a  queer  little  smile. 

"What  would  have  happened,  Edward,  if  you 
had  proposed  to  me  that  May  week,  when  we  were 
— a  Httle  bit  in  love.  WTiich  would  it  have  been 
worst  for,  you  or  me?" 

"You  wouldn't  have  taken  me,  Leila." 

"Oh,  one  never  knoM^s.  But  you'd  never  have 
been  a  priest  then,  and  you'd  never  have  become  a 
saint." 

"Don't  use  that  silly  word.    If  you  knew " 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  34i 

"I  do;  I  can  see  that  you've  been  half  bumed 
alive;  half  bumed  and  half  buried !  Well,  you  have 
your  reward,  whatever  it  is,  and  I  mine.  Good- 
bye, Edward!"  She  took  his  hand.  "You  might 
give  me  your  blessing;  I  want  it." 

Pierson  put  his  other  hand  on  her  shoulder  and, 
bending  forward,  kissed  her  forehead. 

The  tears  rushed  up  in  Leila's  eyes.  "Ah,  me!" 
she  said,  "it's  a  sad  world  ! "  And  wiping  the  quiver- 
ing off  her  Hps  with  the  back  of  her  gloved  hand, 
she  went  quickly  past  him  to  the  door.  She  looked 
back  from  there.  He  had  not  stirred,  but  his  lips 
were  moving.  '  He's  praying  for  me ! '  she  thought. 
*  How  funny!' 

The  moment  she  was  outside,  she  forgot  him; 
the  dreadful  ache  for  Fort  seemed  to  have  been 
whipped  up  within  her,  as  if  that  figure  of  hfelong 
repression  had  infuriated  the  love  of  life  and  pleasure 
in  her.  She  must  and  would  see  Jimmy  again,  if 
she  had  to  wait  and  seek  for  him  all  night !  It  was 
nearly  seven,  he  would  surely  have  finished  at  the 
War  Office;  he  might  be  at  his  Club  or  at  his  rooms. 
She  made  for  the  latter. 

The  httle  street  near  Buckingham  Gate,  where 
no  wag  had  chalked  'Peace'  on  the  doors  for  nearly 
a  year  now,  had  an  arid  look  after  a  hot  day's  sun. 
The  hair-dresser's  shop  below  his  rooms  was  still 
open,  and  the  private  door  ajar.  *I  won't  ring,' 
she  thought;    'I'll  go  straight  up.'     Wliile  she  was 


342  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

mounting  the  two  flights  of  stairs,  she  stopped  twice, 
breathless,  from  a  pain  in  her  side.  She  often  had 
that  pain  now,  as  if  the  longing  in  her  heart  strained 
it  physically.  On  the  modest  landing  at  the  top, 
outside  his  rooms,  she  waited,  leaning  against  the 
wall,  which  was  covered  with  a  red  paper.  A  window 
at  the  back  was  open  and  the  confused  sound  of 
singing  came  in — a  chorus  from  some  soldiers  bil- 
leted in  a  big  hotel  close  by.  ^'Vive-la,  vive-la,  vive- 
la  ve.  Vive  la  compagnie.'^  So  it  came  to  her.  'O 
God !'  she  thought:  ^Let  him  be  in,  let  him  be  nice 
to  me.  It's  the  last  time.'  And,  sick  from  anxiety, 
she  opened  the  door.  He  was  in — flying  on  a  wicker- 
couch  against  the  wall  in  the  far  comer,  with  his 
arms  crossed  behind  his  head,  and  a  pipe  in  his 
mouth;  his  eyes  were  closed,  and  he  neither  moved, 
nor  opened  them,  perhaps  supposing  her  to  be  the 
servant.  Noiseless  as  a  cat,  Leila  crossed  the  room 
till  she  stood  above  him.  And  waiting  for  him  to 
come  out  of  that  defiant  lethargy,  she  took  her  fill 
of  his  thin,  bony  face,  healthy  and  hollow  at  the 
same  time.  With  teeth  clenched  on  the  pipe  it  had 
a  look  of  hard  resistance,  as  of  a  man  with  his  head 
back,  his  arms  pinioned  to  his  sides,  stiffened  against 
some  creature  clinging  and  climbing  and  trying  to 
drag  him  down.  The  pipe  was  alive,  and  dribbled 
smoke;  and  his  leg,  the  injured  one,  wriggled  rest- 
lessly, as  if  worrying  him;  but  the  rest  of  him  was 
as  utterly  and  obstinately  still  as  though  he  were 
asleep.  His  hair  grew  thick  and  crisp,  not  a  thread 
of  grey  in  it,  the  teeth  which  held  the  pipe  gHnted 
white  and  strong.     His  face  was  young;    so  much 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  343, 

younger  than  hers.  Why  did  she  love  it — the  face 
of  a  man  who  couldn't  love  her?  For  a  second  she 
felt  as  if  she  could  seize  the  cushion  which  had  sHpped 
dowTi  off  the  couch,  and  smother  him  as  he  lay 
there,  refusing,  so  it  seemed  to  her,  to  come  to  con- 
sciousness. Love  despised !  Humiliation !  She 
nearly  turned  and  stole  away.  Then  through  the 
door,  left  open,  behind  her,  the  sound  of  that  chorus : 
'  Vive-la,  vive-la,  vive-la  vel '  came  in  and  jolted  her 
nerves  unbearably.  Tearing  the  gardenia  from  her 
breast,  she  flung  it  on  to  his  upturned  face. 

"Jimmy!" 

Fort  struggled  up,  and  stared  at  her.  His  face 
was  comic  from  bewilderment,  and  she  broke  into 
a  httle  nervous  laugh. 

"You  weren't  dreaming  of  me,  dear  Jimmy,  that's 
certain.    In  what  garden  were  you  wandering?" 

"Leila!    You!    How— how  joUy ! " 

"How — ^how  joUy!  I  wanted  to  see  you,  so  I 
came.  And  I  have  seen  you,  as  you  are,  when  you 
aren't  with  me.  I  shall  remember  it;  it  was  good 
for  me — awfuUy  good  for  me." 

"I  didn't  hear  you." 

"Far,  far  away,  my  dear.  Put  my  gardenia  in 
your  buttonhole.  Stop,  I'll  pin  it  in.  Have  you 
had  a  good  rest  aU  this  week  ?  Do  you  like  my  dress  ? 
It's  new.  You  wouldn't  have  noticed  it,  would 
you?" 

"I  should  have  noticed.    I  think  it's  charming." 

"Jimmy,  I  beheve  that  nothing — nothing  will 
ever  shake  your  chivalry." 

"Chivalry?    I  have  none." 


344  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"I  am  going  to  shut  the  door,  do  you  mind?" 
But  he  went  to  the  door  himself,  shut  it,  and  came 
back  to  her.    Leila  looked  up  at  him. 

"Jimmy,  if  ever  you  loved  me  a  Uttle  bit,  be  nice 
to  me  to-day.  And  if  I  say  things — if  I'm  bitter — 
don't  mind;  don't  notice  it.    Promise!" 

"I  promise." 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  sat  leaning  against 
him  on  the  couch,  so  that  she  could  not  see  his 
face.  And  with  his  arm  round  her,  she  let  herself 
go,  deep  into  the  waters  of  illusion;  down — down, 
trying  to  forget  there  was  a  surface  to  which 
she  must  return;  like  a  little  girl  she  played  that 
game  of  make-beheve.  *  He  loves  me — ^he  loves  me — 
he  loves  me!'  To  lose  herseK  like  that  for  just  an 
hour,  only  an  hour;  she  felt  that  she  would  give 
the  rest  of  the  time  vouchsafed  to  her;  give  it  all 
and  willingly.  Her  hand  clasped  his  against  her 
heart,  she  turned  her  face  backward,  up  to  his, 
closing  her  eyes  so  as  still  not  to  see  his  face;  the 
scent  of  the  gardenia  in  his  coat  hurt  her,  so  sweet 
and  strong  it  was. 

3§ 

When  with  her  hat  on  she  stood  ready  to  go,  it 
was  getting  dark.  She  had  come  out  of  her  dream 
now,  was  playing  at  make-believe  no  more.  And 
she  stood  there  with  a  little  stony  smile,  in  the  half- 
dark,  looking  between  her  lashes  at  the  mortified 
expression  on  his  unconscious  face. 

"Poor  Jimmy !"  she  said;  "I'm  not  going  to  keep 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  345 

you  from  dinner  any  longer.  No,  don't  come  with 
me.  I'm  going  alone;  and  don't  light  up,  for 
heaven's  sake." 

She  put  her  hand  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  "That 
flower's  gone  brown  at  the  edges.  Throw  it  away; 
I  can't  bear  faded  flowers.  Nor  can  you.  Quite 
right.    Get  yourself  a  fresh  one  to-morrow." 

She  pulled  the  flower  from  his  buttonhole  and, 
crushing  it  in  her  hand,  held  her  face  up. 

"Well,  kiss  me  once  more;  it  won't  hurt  you." 

For  one  moment  her  Hps  clung  to  his  with  all 
their  might.  She  wrenched  them  away,  felt  for  the 
handle  bHndly,  opened  the  door,  and,  shutting  it 
in  his  face,  went  slowly,  swaying  a  little,  down  the 
stairs.  She  trailed  a  gloved  hand  along  the  wall, 
as  if  its  solidity  could  help  her.  At  the  last  half- 
landing,  where  a  curtain  hung,  dividing  off  back 
premises,  she  stopped  and  Hstened.  There  wasn't 
a  sound.  'If  I  stand  here  behind  this  curtain,'  she 
thought,  *I  shall  see  him  again.'  She  sHpped  be- 
hind the  curtain,  close  drawn  but  for  a  httle  chink. 
It  was  so  dark  there  that  she  could  not  see  her  own 
hand.  She  heard  the  door  open,  and  his  slow  foot- 
steps coming  down  the  stairs.  His  feet,  knees,  whole 
figure  came  into  sight,  his  face  just  a  dim  blur. 
He  passed,  smoking  a  cigarette.  She  crammed 
her  hand  against  her  mouth  to  stop  herself  from 
speaking  and  the  crushed  gardenia  filled  her  nostrils 
with  its  cold,  fragrant  velvet.  He  was  gone,  the 
door  below  was  shut.  A  wild,  half-stupid  longing 
came  on  her  to  go  up  again,  wait  till  he  came  in, 


346  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

throw  herself  upon  him,  tell  him  she  was  going,  beg 
him  to  keep  her  with  him.  Ah !  and  he  would !  He 
would  look  at  her  with  that  haggard  pity  she  could 
not  bear,  and  say,  ''Of  course,  Leila,  of  course." 
'No !  By  God,  no !  I  am  going  quietly  home,'  she 
muttered;  'just  quietly  home!  Come  along,  be 
brave;  don't  be  a  fool!  Come  along!'  And  she 
went  down  into  the  street.  At  the  entrance  to  the 
Park  she  saw  him,  fifty  yards  in  front,  dawdling 
along.  And,  as  if  she  had  been  his  shadow  length- 
ened out  to  that  far  distance,  she  moved  behind 
him.  Slowly,  always  at  that  distance,  she  followed 
him  under  the  plane-trees,  along  the  Park  railings, 
past  St.  James's  Palace,  into  Pall  MaU.  He  went 
up  some  steps,  and  vanished  into  his  Club.  It  was 
the  end.  She  looked  up  at  the  building;  a  mon- 
strous granite  tomb,  all  dark.  An  emptied  cab  was 
just  moving  from  the  door.  She  got  in.  "Camelot 
Mansions,  St.  John's  Wood."  And  braced  against 
the  cushions,  panting,  and  clenching  her  hands,  she 
thought:  'Well,  I've  seen  him  again.  Hard  crust's 
better  than  no  bread.  Oh,  God !  All  finished — not 
a  crumb,  not  a  crumb !  Vive-la,  vive-la,  vive4a  VC' 
Vive-la  compagnie  I ' 


XIV 

Fort  had  been  lying  there  about  an  hour,  sleep- 
ing and  awake,  before  that  visit.  He  had  dreamed 
a  curious  and  wonderfully  emotionaHsing  dream. 
A  long  grey  line,  in  a  dim  hght,  neither  of  night  nor 
morning,  the  whole  length  of  the  battle-front  in 
France,  charging  in  short  drives,  which  carried  the 
line  a  little  forward,  with  just  a  tiny  pause  and 
suck-back;  then  on  again  irresistibly,  on  and  on; 
and  at  each  rush,  every  voice,  his  own  among  them, 
shouted:  'Hooray!  the  English!  Hooray!  the 
Enghsh ! '  The  sensation  of  that  advancing  tide 
of  dim  figures  in  grey  Hght,  the  throb  and  roar,  the 
wonderful,  rhythmic  steady  drive  of  it,  no  more  to 
be  stopped  than  the  waves  of  an  incoming  tide, 
was  perfectly,  gloriously  fascinating;  hfe  was  noth- 
ing, death  nothing.  'Hooray,  the  English!'  In 
that  dream,  he  was  his  country,  he  was  every  one 
of  that  long  charging  hne,  driving  forward  in  those 
great  heaving  pulsations,  irresistible,  on  and  on. 
Out  of  the  very  centre  of  this  intoxicating  dream 
he  had  been  dragged  by  some  street  noise,  and  had 
closed  his  eyes  again,  in  the  vain  hope  that  he  might 
dream  it  on  to  its  end.  But  it  came  no  more;  and 
lighting  his  pipe,  he  lay  there  wondering  at  its  fervid, 
fantastic  reaUsm.    Death  was  nothing,  if  his  coun- 

347 


348  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

try  lived  and  won.  In  waking  hours  he  never  had 
quite  that  single-hearted  knowledge  of  himself. 
And  what  marvellously  real  touches  got  mixed  into 
the  fantastic  stuff  of  dreams,  as  if  something  were 
at  work  to  convince  the  dreamer  in  spite  of  himself — 
*  Hooray!'  not  'Hurrah!'  Just  conamon  'Hooray!* 
And  'the  Enghsh,'  not  the  hterary  'British.'  And 
then  the  soft  flower  had  struck  his  forehead,  and 
Leila's  voice  cried:  "Jimmy!" 

When  she  left  him,  his  thought  was  just  a  tired: 
'Well,  so  it's  begun  again!'  What  did  it  matter, 
since  common  loyalty  and  compassion  cut  him  off 
from  what  his  heart  desired;  and  that  desire  was 
absurd,  as  little  Ukely  of  attainment  as  the  moon. 
What  did  it  matter?  If  it  gave  her  any  pleasure 
to  love  him,  let  it  go  on !  Yet,  all  the  time  that  he 
was  walking  across  under  the  plane-trees,  Noel 
seemed  to  walk  in  front  of  him,  just  out  of  reach, 
so  that  he  ached  with  the  thought  that  he  would 
never  catch  her  up,  and  walk  beside  her. 

Two  days  later,  on  reaching  his  rooms  in  the  eve- 
ning, he  found  this  letter  on  ship's  note-paper,  with 
the  Plymouth  postmark  : 

"Fare  thee  well,  and  if  for  ever, 
Then  for  ever  fare  thee  well  I 

"Leila." 

He  read  it  with  a  really  horrible  feeling,  for  all 
the  world  as  if  he  had  been  accused  of  a  crime  and 
did  not  know  whether  he  had  committed  it  or  not. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  349 

And,  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts,  he  took  a  cab 
and  drove  to  her  flat.  It  was  closed,  but  her  address 
was  given  him;  a  bank  in  Cape  Town.  He  had 
received  his  release.  In  his  remorse  and  relief,  so 
confusing  and  so  poignant,  he  heard  the  driver  of 
the  cab  asking  where  he  wanted  to  go  now.  "Oh, 
back  again!"  But  before  they  had  gone  a  mile 
he  corrected  the  address,  in  an  impulse  of  which 
next  moment  he  felt  thoroughly  ashamed.  What 
he  was  doing  indeed,  was  as  indecent  as  if  he  were 
driving  oS  from  the  funeral  of  his  wife  to  the  boudoir 
of  another  woman.  When  he  reached  the  old  Square, 
and  the  words  'To  let'  stared  him  in  the  face,  he 
felt  a  curious  relief,  though  it  meant  that  he  would 
not  see  her  whom  to  see  for  ten  minutes  he  felt  he 
would  give  a  year  of  life.  Dismissing  his  cab,  he 
stood  debating  whether  to  ring  the  beU.  The  sight 
of  a  maid's  face  at  the  window  decided  him.  Mr. 
Pierson  was  out,  and  the  young  ladies  were  away. 
He  asked  for  Mrs.  Laird's  address,  and  turned  away, 
almost  into  the  arms  of  Pierson  himself.  The  greet- 
ing was  stiff  and  strange.  'Does  he  know  that  Leila's 
gone?'  he  thought.  'If  so,  he  must  think  me  the 
most  awful  skunk.    And  am  I?    Am  I?' 

When  he  reached  home,  he  sat  down  to  write  to 
Leila.  But  having  stared  at  the  paper  for  an  hour 
and  written  these  three  Hues: 


"My  dear  Leila, 

"  I  cannot  express  to  you  the  feelings  with  which  I  received 
your  letter " 


350  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

he  tore  it  up.  Nothing  would  be  adequate,  nothing 
would  be  decent.  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead — 
the  dead  past  which  in  his  heart  had  never  been 
alive!  Why  pretend?  He  had  done  his  best  to 
keep  his  end  up.    Why  pretend  ? 


PART  IV 


In  the  boarding-house,  whence  the  Lairds  had 
not  yet  removed,  the  old  lady  who  knitted,  sat  by 
the  fireplace,  and  Hght  from  the  setting  sun  threw 
her  shadow  on  the  waU,  moving  spidery  and  grey, 
over  the  yellowish  distemper,  in  time  to  the  tune 
of  her  needles.  She  was  a  very  old  lady — the  oldest 
lady  in  the  world,  Noel  thought — and  she  knitted 
without  stopping,  without  breathing,  so  that  the 
girl  felt  incHned  to  scream.  In  the  evening  when 
George  and  Gratian  were  not  in,  Noel  would  often 
sit  watching  the  needles,  brooding  over  her  as  yet 
undecided  future.  And  now  and  again  the  old  lady 
would  look  up  above  her  spectacles ;  move  the  comers 
of  her  lips  ever  so  sUghtly,  and  drop  her  gaze  again. 
She  had  pitted  herself  against  Fate;  so  long  as  she 
knitted,  the  war  could  not  stop — such  was  the  con- 
clusion Noel  had  come  to.  This  old  lady  knitted 
the  epic  of  acquiescence  to  the  tune  of  her  needles; 
it  was  she  who  kept  the  war  going — such  a  thin 
old  lady,  too !  '  If  I  were  to  hold  her  elbows  from 
behind,'  the  girl  used  to  think,  ^I  beheve  she'd  die. 
I  expect  I  ought  to;  then  the  war  would  stop.  And 
if  the  war  stopped,  there'd  be  love  and  life  again.* 
Then  the  httle  silvery  tune  would  cUck  itself  once 
more  into  her  brain,  and  stop  her  thinking.  In  her 
lap  this  evening  lay  a  letter  from  her  father. 

353 


354  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

*'My  dearest  Nollie, 

"I  am  glad  to  say  I  have  my  chaplaincy,  and  am  to  start  for 
Egypt  very  soon.  I  should  have  wished  to  go  to  France,  but 
must  take  what  I  can  get,  in  view  of  my  age,  for  they  really 
don't  want  us  who  are  getting  on,  I  fear.  It  is  a  great  com- 
fort to  me  to  think  that  Gratian  is  with  you,  and  no  doubt 
you  will  all  soon  be  in  a  house  where  my  Httle  grandson  can 
join  you.  I  have  excellent  accounts  of  him  in  a  letter  from 
your  aunt,  just  received.  My  darling  child,  you  must  never 
again  think  that  my  resignation  has  been  due  to  you.  It  is 
not  so.  You  know,  or  perhaps  you  don't,  that  ever  since 
the  war  broke  out,  I  have  chafed  over  staying  at  home,  my 
heart  has  been  with  our  boys  out  there,  and  sooner  or  later 
it  must  have  come  to  this,  apart  from  anything  else.  Mon- 
sieur Lavendie  has  been  round  in  the  evening,  twice;  he  is 
a  nice  man,  I  like  him  very  much,  in  spite  of  our  differences 
of  view.  He  wanted  to  give  me  the  sketch  he  made  of  you 
in  the  Park,  but  what  can  I  do  with  it  now?  And  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  hke  it  no  better  than  the  oil  painting.  It  is  not 
a  likeness,  as  I  know  you.  I  hope  I  didn't  hurt  his  feelings, 
the  feelings  of  an  artist  are  so  very  easily  wounded.  There 
is  one  thing  I  must  tell  you.  Leila  has  gone  back  to  South 
Africa;  she  came  round  one  evening  about  ten  days  ago, 
to  say  good-bye.  She  was  very  brave,  for  I  fear  it  means  a 
great  wrench  for  her.  I  hope  and  pray  she  may  find  com- 
fort and  tranquillity  out  there.  And  now,  my  dear,  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  not  to  see  Captain  Fort.  I  know  that  he 
admires  you.  But,  apart  from  the  question  of  his  conduct 
in  regard  to  Leila,  he  made  the  saddest  impression  on  me 
by  coming  to  our  house  the  very  day  after  her  departure. 
There  is  something  about  that  which  makes  me  feel  he  can- 
not be  the  sort  of  man  in  whom  I  could  feel  any  confidence. 
I  don't  suppose  for  a  moment  that  he  is  in  your  thoughts, 
and  yet  before  going  so  far  from  you,  I  feel  I  must  warn  you. 
I  should  rejoice  to  see  you  married  to  a  good  man;    but, 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  355 

though  I  don't  wish  to  think  hardly  of  anyone,  I  cannot 
believe  Captain  Fort  is  that. 

"I  shall  come  down  to  you  before  I  start,  which  may  be 
in  quite  a  short  time  now.  My  dear  love  to  you  and  Gracie, 
and  best  wishes  to  George. 

"Your  ever  loving  father, 

"Edward  Pierson." 

Across  this  letter  lying  on  her  knees,  Noel  gazed 
at  the  spidery  movement  on  the  wall.    Was  it  ac- 
quiescence that  the  old  lady  knitted,  or  was  it  re- 
sistance— a  challenge  to  death  itself,  a  challenge 
dancing  to  the  time  of  the  needles  like  the  grey  ghost 
of  himian  resistance  to  Fate !     She  wouldn't  give 
in,  this  oldest  lady  in  the  world,  she  meant  to  knit 
till  she  fell  into  the  grave.    And  so  Leila  had  gone ! 
It  hurt  her  to  know  that;   and  yet  it  pleased  her. 
Acquiescence — ^resistance !    Why  did  Daddy  always 
want  to  choose  the  way  she  should  go?    So  gentle 
he  was,  yet  he  always  wanted  to !    And  why  did  he 
always  make  her  feel  that  she  must  go  the  other 
way?     The  sunlight  ceased  to  stream  in,  the  old 
lady's  shadow  faded  off  the  wall,  but  the  needles 
still  sang  their  Uttle  tune.    And  the  girl  said: 
"Do  you  enjoy  knitting,  Mrs.  Adam?" 
The  old  lady  looked  at  her  above  the  spectacles. 
"Enjoy,  my  dear?    It  passes  the  time." 
"But  do  you  want  the  time  to  pass?" 
There  was  no  answer  for  a  moment,  and  Noel 
thought:   'How  dreadful  of  me  to  have  said  that!' 
"Eh?"  said  the  old  lady 
"I  said:   Isn't  it  very  tiring?" 


356  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


>» 


"Not  when  I  don't  think  about  it,  my  dear. 

"What  do  you  think  about?" 

The  old  lady  cackled  gently. 

"Oh— well!"  she  said. 

And  Noel  thought:  'It  must  be  dreadful  to  grow 
old,  and  pass  the  time ! ' 

She  took  up  her  father's  letter,  and  bent  it 
meditatively  against  her  chin.  He  wanted  her  to 
pass  the  time — ^not  to  live,  not  to  enjoy !  To  pass 
the  time.  What  else  had  he  been  doing  himself, 
all  these  years,  ever  since  she  could  remember,  ever 
since  her  mother  died,  but  just  passing  the  time? 
Passing  the  time  because  he  did  not  beheve  in  this 
Hfe;  not  living  at  all,  just  preparing  for  the  life  he 
did  beheve  in.  Denying  himself  everything  that 
was  exciting  and  nice,  so  that  when  he  died  he  might 
pass  pure  and  saintly  to  his  other  world.  He  could 
not  beheve  Captain  Fort  a  good  man,  because  he 
had  not  passed  the  time,  and  resisted  Leila;  and 
Leila  was  gone !  And  now  it  was  a  sin  for  him  to 
love  someone  else;  he  must  pass  the  time  again. 
'Daddy  doesn't  beheve  in  life,'  she  thought;  'it's 
monsieur's  picture.  Daddy's  a  saint;  but  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  saint,  and  pass  the  time.  He  doesn't 
mind  making  people  unhappy,  because  the  more 
they're  repressed,  the  saintlier  they'll  be.  But  I 
can't  bear  to  be  unhappy,  or  to  see  others  unhappy. 
I  wonder  if  I  could  bear  to  be  unhappy  to  save  some- 
one else — ^like  Leila.  I  admire  her !  Oh !  I  admire 
her !  She's  not  doing  it  because  she  thinks  it  good 
for  her  soul;    only  because  she  can't  bear  making 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  357 

him  unhappy.  She  must  love  him  very  much.  Poor 
Leila !  And  she's  done  it  all  by  herself,  of  her  own 
accord ! '  It  was  like  what  George  said  of  the  sol- 
diers; they  didn't  know  why  they  were  heroes,  it 
was  not  because  they'd  been  told  to  be,  or  because 
they  beheved  in  a  future  Hfe.  They  just  had  to 
be,  from  inside  somewhere,  to  save  others.  'And 
they  love  hfe  as  much  as  I  do,'  she  thought.  'What 
a  beast  it  makes  one  feel ! '  Those  needles !  Re- 
sistance— acquiescence  ?  Both  perhaps.  The  oldest 
lady  in  the  world,  with  her  lips  moving  at  the  comers, 
keeping  things  in,  had  Hved  her  hfe,  and  knew  it. 
How  dreadful  to  Hve  on  v/hen  you  were  of  no  more 
interest  to  anyone,  but  must  just  'pass  the  time' 
and  die.  But  how  much  more  dreadful  to  'pass  the 
time '  when  you  were  strong,  and  hfe  and  love  were 
yours  for  the  taking!  'I  shan't  answer  Daddy,' 
she  thought. 


II 

The  maid,  who  one  Saturday  in  July  opened  the 
door  to  Jimmy  Fort,  had  never  heard  the  name  of 
Laird,  for  she  was  but  a  unit  in  the  ceaseless  pro- 
cession which  pass  through  the  boarding-houses  of 
places  subject  to  air-raids.  Placing  him  in  a  sitting- 
room,  she  said  she  would  find  Miss  'Allow.  Then  he 
waited,  turning  the  leaves  of  an  illustrated  journal, 
wherein  Society  beauties,  starving  Serbians,  ac- 
tresses with  pretty  legs,  prize  dogs,  sinking  ships. 
Royalties,  shells  bursting,  and  padres  reading  funeral 
services,  testified  to  the  cathoHcity  of  the  public 
taste,  but  did  not  assuage  his  nerves.  What  if  their 
address  were  not  known  here?  Why,  in  his  fear  of 
putting  things  to  the  test,  had  he  let  this  month  go 
by  ?  An  old  lady  was  sitting  by  the  hearth,  knitting, 
the  cHck  of  whose  needles  blended  with  the  buzzing 
of  a  large  bee  on  the  window-pane.  *  She  may  know,' 
he  thought,  'she  looks  as  if  she'd  been  here  for  ever.* 
And  approaching  her,  he  said: 

''I  can  assure  you  those  socks  are  very  much  ap- 
preciated, ma'am." 

The  old  lady  bridled  over  her  spectacles. 

"It  passes  the  time,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  more  than  that;   it  helps  to  win  the  war, 


ma'am." 


358 


til 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  359 

The  old  lady's  lips  moved  at  the  corners;  she 
did  not  answer.    "Deaf!"  he  thought. 

"May  I  ask  if  you  knew  my  friends,  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  Laird,  and  Miss  Pierson?" 

The  old  lady  cackled  gently. 

"Oh,  yes!  A  pretty  young  girl;  as  pretty  as 
life.  She  used  to  sit  with  me.  Quite  a  pleasure  to 
watch  her;   such  large  eyes  she  had." 

Where  have  they  gone?    Can  you  tell  me?" 
Oh,  I  don't  know  at  all." 

It  was  a  httle  cold  douche  on  his  heart.  He  longed 
to  say:  'Stop  knitting  a  minute,  please.  It's  my 
life,  to  know.'  But  the  tune  of  the  needles  answered: 
'It's  my  Kfe  to  knit.'  And  he  turned  away  to  the 
window.  y 

"She  used  to  sit  just  there;  quite  still,  quite  still.'* 

Fort  looked  down  at  the  window-seat.  So,  she 
used  to  sit  just  here,  quite  still. 

"What  a  dreadful  war  this  is !"  said  the  old  lady. 
"Have  you  been  at  the  front?" 

"Yes." 

"To  think  of  the  poor  young  girls  who'll  never 
have  husbands!    I'm  sure  I  think  it's  dreadful." 

"Yes,"  said  Fort;  "it's  dreadful."  And  then  a 
voice  from  the  doorway  said: 

"Did  you  want  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Laird,  sir?  East 
Bungalow  their  address  is;  it's  a  little  way  out  on 
the  North  Road.    Anyone  will  tell  you." 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  Fort  looked  gratefully  at 
the  old  lady  who  had  called  Noel  as  pretty  as  life» 
"Good  afternoon,  ma'am." 


360  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"Good  afternoon."  The  needles  clicked,  and 
little  movements  occurred  at  the  comers  of  her 
mouth.  Fort  went  out.  He  could  not  find  a  vehicle, 
and  was  a  long  time  walking.  The  Bungalow  was 
ugly,  of  yellow  brick  pointed  with  red.  It  lay  about 
two-thirds  up  between  the  main  road  and  cHffs, 
and  had  a  rock-garden  and  a  glaring,  brand-new 
look,  in  the  afternoon  sunlight.  He  opened  the  gate, 
uttering  one  of  those  prayers  which  come  so  ghbly 
from  imbelievers  when  they  want  anything.  A 
baby's  ciying  answered  it,  and  he  thought  with 
ecstasy :  '  Heaven,  she  is  here ! '  Passing  the  rock- 
garden  he  could  see  a  lawn  at  the  back  of  the  house 
and  a  perambulator  out  there  under  a  holm-oak 
tree,  and  Noel — surely  Noel  herseK!  Hardening 
his  heart,  he  went  forward.  In  a  lilac  sunbonnet 
she  was  bending  over  the  perambulator.  He  trod 
softly  on  the  grass,  and  was  quite  close  before  she 
heard  him.  He  had  prepared  no  words,  but  just 
held  out  his  hand.  The  baby,  interested  in  the 
shadow  faUing  across  its  pram,  ceased  crying.  Noel 
took  his  hand.  Under  the  sunbonnet,  which  hid 
her  short  hair,  she  seemed  older  and  paler,  as  if  she 
felt  the  heat.  He  had  no  feeling  that  she  was  glad 
to  see  him. 

"How  do  you  do?  Have  you  seen  Gratian;  she 
ought  to  be  in." 

"I  didn't  come  to  see  her;  I  came  to  see  you." 

Noel  turned  to  the  baby. 

"Here  he  is." 

Fort  stood  at  the  end  of  the  perambulator,  and 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  361 

looked  at  that  other  fellow's  baby.  In  the  shade 
of  the  hood,  with  the  frilly  clothes,  it  seemed  to  him 
lying  with  its  head  down-hill.  It  had  scratched  its 
snub  nose  and  bumpy,  forehead,  and  it  stared  up 
at  its  mother  with  blue  eyes,  which  seemed  to  have 
no  imderlids  so  fat  were  its  cheeks. 

"I  wonder  what  they  think  about,"  he  said. 

Noel  put  her  finger  into  the  baby's  fist. 

"They  only  think  when  they  want  something." 

"That's  a  deep  saying:  but  his  eyes  are  awfully 
interested  in  you." 

Noel  smiled;  and  very  slowly  the  baby's  curly 
mouth  unclosed,  and  discovered  his  toothlessness. 

"He's  a  darhng,"  she  said  in  a  whisper. 

'And  so  are  you,'  he  thought,  ^if  only  I  dared 
say  it ! ' 

"Daddy  is  here,"  she  said  suddenly,  without 
looking  up.  "He's  sailing  for  Egypt  the  day  after 
to-morrow.    He  doesn't  like  you." 

Fort's  heart  gave  a  jump.  Why  did  she  tell  him 
that,  unless — unless  she  was  just  a  httle  on  his  side  ? 

"I  expected  that,"  he  said.  "I'm  a  sinner,  as 
you  know." 

Noel  looked  up  at  him.  "Sin!"  she  said,  and 
bent  again  over  her  baby.  The  word,  the  tone  in 
which  she  said  it,  crouching  over  her  baby,  gave 
him  the  thought:  'If  it  weren't  for  that  Httle  crea- 
ture, I  shouldn't  have  a  dog's  chance.'  "I'll  go 
and  see  your  father.    Is  he  in?" 

"I  thmk  so." 

"May  I  come  to-morrow?" 


362  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"It's  Sunday;   and  Daddy's  last  day." 

"Ah!  Of  course."  He  did  not  dare  look  back, 
to  see  if  her  gaze  was  following  him,  but  he  thought : 
'Chance  or  no  chance,  I'm  going  to  fight  for  her 
tooth  and  nail.' 

In  a  room  darkened  against  the  evening  sun  Pier- 
son  was  sitting  on  a  sofa  reading.  The  sight  of  that 
figure  in  khaki  disconcerted  Fort,  who  had  not  real- 
ised that  there  would  be  this  metamorphosis.  The 
narrow  face,  clean-shaven  now,  with  its  deep-set 
eyes  and  compressed  lips,  looked  more  priestly  than 
ever,  in  spite  of  this  brown  garb.  He  felt  his  hope 
suddenly  to  be  very  forlorn  indeed.  And  rushing 
at  the  fence,  he  began  abruptly: 

"I've  come  to  ask  you,  sir,  for  your  pennission 
to  marry  Noel,  if  she  will  have  me." 

He  had  thought  Pierson's  face  gentle;  it  was  not 
gentle  now.  "Did  you  know  I  was  here,  then.  Cap- 
tain Fort?" 

"I  saw  Noel  in  the  garden.  I've  said  nothing 
to  her,  of  course.  But  she  told  me  you  were  start- 
ing to-morrow  for  Egypt,  so  I  shall  have  no  other 
chance." 

"I  am  sorry  you  have  come.  It  is  not  for  me  to 
judge,  but  I  don't  think  you  will  make  Noel  happy." 
May  I  ask  you  why,  sir?" 
Captain  Fort,  the  world's  judgment  of  these 
things  is  not  mine;  but  since  you  ask  me,  I  will  tell 
you  frankly.  My  cousin  Leila  has  a  claim  on  you. 
It  is  her  you  should  ask  to  marry  you." 
T  did  ask  her;   she  refused." 


a- 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  s^S 

"I  know.  She  would  not  refuse  you  again  if  you 
went  out  to  her." 

"I  am  not  free  to  go  out  to  her;  besides,  she 
would  refuse.  She  knows  I  don't  love  her,  and  never 
have." 

"Never  have?" 

"No." 

"Then  why " 

'Because  I'm  a  man,  I  suppose,  and  a  fool." 
'If  it  was  simply,  'because  you  are  a  man'  as 
you  call  it,  it  is  clear  that  no  principle  or  faith  governs 
you.  And  yet  you  ask  me  to  give  you  Noel;  my 
poor  Noel,  who  wants  the  love  and  protection  not 
of  a  'man'  but  of  a  good  man.  No,  Captain  Fort, 
no!" 

Fort  bit  his  lips.  "I'm  clearly  not  a  good  man  in 
your  sense  of  the  word;  but  I  love  her  terribly,  and 
I  would  protect  her.  I  don't  in  the  least  know 
whether  she'll  have  me.  I  don't  expect  her  to,  na- 
turally. But  I  warn  you  that  I  mean  to  ask  her, 
and  to  wait  for  her.  I'm  so  much  in  love  that  I  can 
do  nothing  else." 

"The  man  who  is  truly  in  love  does  what  is  best 
for  the  one  he  loves."  Fort  bent  his  head;  he  felt 
as  if  he  were  at  school  again,  confronting  his  head- 
master. "That's  true,"  he  said.  "And  I  shall  never 
trade  on  her  position.  If  she  can't  feel  anything 
for  me  now  or  in  the  future,  I  shan't  trouble  her, 
you  may  be  sure  of  that.  But  if  by  some  wonderful 
chance  she  should,  I  know  I  can  make  her  happy, 
sir." 


364  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"She  is  a  child." 

''No,  she's  not  a  child,"  said  Fort  stubbornly. 

Pierson  touched  the  lapel  of  his  new  tunic.  "  Cap- 
tain Fort,  I  am  going  far  away  from  her,  and  leav- 
ing her  without  protection.  I  trust  to  your  chivalry 
not  to  ask  her,  till  I  come  back." 

Fort  threw  back  his  head.  "No,  no,  I  won't  accept 
that  position.  With  or  without  your  presence  the 
facts  will  be  the  same.  Either  she  can  love  me,  or 
she  can't.  If  she  can,  she'll  be  happier  with  me. 
If  she  can't,  there's  an  end  of  it." 

Pierson  came  slowly  up  to  him.  "In  my  view," 
he  said,  "you  are  as  bound  to  Leila  as  if  you  were 
married  to  her." 

"You  can't  expect  me  to  take  the  priest's  view, 


sir." 


Pierson 's  hps  trembled. 

"You  call  it  a  priest's  view;  I  think  it  is  only 
the  view  of  a  man  of  honour." 

Fort  reddened.  "That's  for  my  conscience," 
he  said  stubbornly.  "I  can't  tell  you,  and  I'm  not 
going  to,  how  things  began.  I  was  a  fool.  But  I 
did  my  best,  and  I  know  that  Leila  doesn't  think 
I'm  bound.  If  she  had,  she  would  never  have  gone. 
When  there's  no  feeling — there  never  was  real  feel- 
ing on  my  side — and  when  there's  this  terribly  real 
feeling  for  Noel,  which  I  never  sought,  which  I  tried 
to  keep  down,  which  I  ran  away  from " 

"Did  you?" 

"Yes.  To  go  on  with  the  other  was  foul.  I  should 
have  thought  you  might  have  seen  that,  sir;  but 
I  did  go  on  with  it.    It  was  Leila  who  made  an  end." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  365 

*' Leila  behaved  nobly,  I  think." 

*'She  was  splendid;  but  that  doesn't  make  me  a 
brute." 

Pierson  turned  away  to  the  window,  whence  he 
must  see  Noel. 

"It  is  repugnant  to  me,"  he  said.  "Is  there  never 
to  be  any  purity  in  her  hfe?" 

"Is  there  never  to  be  any  life  for  her?  At  your 
rate,  sir,  there  will  be  none.  I'm  no  worse  than 
other  men,  and  I  love  her  more  than  they  could." 

For  fully  a  minute  Pierson  stood  silent,  before 
he  said:  "Forgive  me  if  I've  spoken  harshly.  I 
didn't  mean  to.  I  love  her  intensely;  I  wish  for 
nothing  but  her  good.  But  all  my  life  I  have  be- 
lieved that  for  a  man  there  is  only  one  woman — for 
a  woman  only  one  man." 

"Then,  sir,"  Fort  burst  out,  "you  wish  her " 

Pierson  had  put  his  hand  up,  as  if  to  ward  off  a 
blow;  and,  angry  though  he  was,  Fort  stopped. 

"We  are  all  made  of  flesh  and  blood,"  he  con- 
tinued coldly,  "and  it  seems  to  me  that  you  think 
we  aren't." 

"We  have  spirits  too.  Captain  Fort."  The  voice 
was  suddenly  so  gentle  that  Fort's  anger  evaporated. 

"I  have  a  great  respect  for  you,  sir;  but  a  greater 
love  for  Noel,  and  nothing  in  this  world  will  prevent 
me  trying  to  give  my  life  to  her." 

A  smile  quivered  over  Pierson's  face.  "If  you 
try,  then  I  can  but  pray  that  you  will  fail." 

Fort  did  not  answer,  and  went  out. 

He  walked  slowly  away  from  the  bungalow,  wdth 
his  head  down,  sore,  angry,  and  yet — relieved.    He 


366  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

knew  where  he  stood;  nor  did  he  feel  that  he  had 
been  worsted — those  strictures  had  not  touched  him. 
Convicted  of  inunorahty,  he  remained  conscious 
of  private  justifications,  in  a  way  that  human 
beings  have.  Only  one  httle  comer  of  memory, 
unseen  and  uncriticised  by  his  opponent,  troubled 
him.  He  pardoned  himself  the  rest;  the  one  thing 
he  did  not  pardon  was  the  fact  that  he  had  known 
Noel  before  his  haison  with  Leila  commenced;  had 
even  let  Leila  sweep  him  away  on  an  evening  when 
he  had  been  in  Noel's  company.  For  that  he  felt 
a  real  disgust  with  himself.  And  all  the  way  back 
to  the  station  he  kept  thinking:  'How  could  I? 
I  deserve  to  lose  her!  Still,  I  shall  try;  but  not 
now — not  yet ! '  And,  wearily  enough,  he  took  the 
train  back  to  town. 


Ill 

Both  girls  rose  early  that  last  day,  and  went  with 
their  father  to  Communion.  As  Gratian  had  said 
to  George:  ''It's  nothing  to  me  now,  but  it  will 
mean  a  lot  to  him  out  there,  as  a  memory  of  us. 
So  I  must  go."  And  he  had  answered:  "Quite 
right,  my  dear.  Let  him  have  all  he  can  get  of  you 
both  to-day.  I'll  keep  out  of  the  way,  and  be  back 
the  last  thing  at  night."  Their  father's  smile  when 
he  saw  them  waiting  for  him  went  straight  to  both 
their  hearts.  It  was  a  deUcious  day,  and  the  early 
freshness  had  not  yet  dried  out  of  the  air,  when 
they  were  walking  home  to  breakfast.  Each  girl 
had  sUpped  a  hand  under  his  arm.  'It's  like  Moses 
or  was  it  Aaron  ? '  Noel  thought  absurdly.  Memory 
had  complete  hold  of  her.  All  the  old  days !  Nur- 
sery hours  on  Sundays  after  tea,  stories  out  of 
the  huge  Bible  bound  in  mother-o'-pearl,  with 
photogravures  of  the  Holy  Land — palms,  and  hills, 
and  goats,  and  little  Eastern  figures,  and  funny 
boats  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  and  camels — always 
camels.  The  book  would  be  on  his  knee,  and 
they  one  on  each  arm  of  his  chair,  waiting  eagerly 
for  the  pages  to  be  turned  so  that  a  new  picture 
came.  And  there  would  be  the  feel  of  his  cheek, 
prickly  against  theirs;  and  the  old  names  with  the 
old  glamour — to  Gratian  Joshua,  Daniel,  Mordecai, 

367 


368  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Peter;  to  Noel  Absalom  because  of  his  hair,  and 
Haman  because  she  liked  the  sound,  and  Ruth  be- 
cause she  was  pretty,  and  John  because  he  leaned 
on  Jesus'  breast.  Neither  of  them  cared  for  Job 
or  David,  and  EHjah  and  EUsha  they  detested  be- 
cause they  hated  the  name  EKza.  And  later  days 
by  firelight  in  the  drawing-room,  roasting  chest- 
nuts just  before  evening  church,  and  telhng  ghost 
stories,  and  trying  to  make  Daddy  eat  his  share. 
And  hours  beside  him  at  the  piano,  each  eager  for 
her  special  hymns — for  Gratian,  "Onward,  Chris- 
tian Soldiers,"  "Lead,  Kindly  Light,"  and  "0  God 
Our  Help";  for  Noel,  "Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee," 
the  one  with  "The  Hosts  of  Midian"  in  it,  and 
"For  Those  in  Peril  on  the  Sea."  And  carols! 
Ah !  And  Choristers !  Noel  had  loved  one  deeply 
— the  word  ^chorister'  was  so  enchanting;  and  be- 
cause of  his  whiteness,  and  hair  which  had  no  grease 
on  it,  but  stood  up  all  bright;  she  had  never  spoken 
to  him — a  far  worship,  like  that  for  a  star.  And 
always,  always  Daddy  had  been  gentle;  sometimes 
angry,  but  always  gentle;  and  they — sometimes 
not  at  all !  And  mixed  up  with  it  all,  the  dogs  they 
had  had,  and  the  cats  they  had  had,  and  the  cocka- 
too, and  the  governesses,  and  their  red  cloaks,  and 
the  curates,  and  the  pantomimes,  and  "Peter  Pan," 
and  "Alice  in  Wonderland" — Daddy  sitting  be- 
tween them,  so  that  one  could  snuggle  up.  And 
later,  the  school-days,  the  hockey,  the  prizes,  the 
holidays,  the  rush  into  his  arms;  and  the  great  and 
wonderful  yearly  exodus  to  far  places,  fishing  and 
bathing;    walks  and  drives;    rides  and  climbs,  al- 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  369 

ways  with  him.  And  concerts  and  Shakespeare 
plays  in  the  Christmas  and  Easter  hoKdays;  and  the 
walks  home  in  streets — all  lighted  in  those  days — 
one  on  each  side  of  him.  And  this  was  the  end ! 
They  waited  on  him  at  breakfast:  they  kept  steal- 
ing glances  at  him,  photographing  him  in  their  minds. 
Gratian  got  her  camera  and  did  actually  photograph 
him  in  the  morning  sunhght  with  Noel,  without 
Noel,  with  the  baby;  against  all  regulations  for  the 
defence  of  the  realm.  It  was  Noel  who  suggested: 
''Daddy,  let's  take  lunch  out  and  go  for  all  day 
on  the  cliffs,  we  three,  and  forget  there's  a  war." 

So  easy  to  say,  so  difficult  to  do,  with  the  boom 
of  the  guns  travelHng  to  their  ears  along  the  grass, 
mingled  with  the  buzz  of  insects.  Yet  that  hum 
of  summer,  the  innumerable  voices  of  tiny  lives, 
gossamer  things  all  as  alive  as  they,  and  as  impor- 
tant to  their  frail  selves;  and  the  white  clouds,  few 
and  so  slow-moving,  and  the  remote  strange  purity 
which  chngs  to  the  chalky  downs,  all  this  white 
and  green  and  blue  of  land  and  sea  had  its  peace, 
which  crept  into  the  spirits  of  those  three  alone 
with  Nature,  this  once  more,  the  last  time  for — who 
could  say  how  long?  They  talked,  by  tacit  agree- 
ment, of  nothing  but  what  had  happened  before 
the  war  began,  while  the  flock  of  the  blown  dande- 
lions drifted  past.  Pierson  sat  cross-legged  on  the 
grass,  without  his  cap,  suffering  a  little  still  from  the 
stiffness  of  his  unwonted  garments.  And  the  girls 
lay  one  on  each  side  of  him,  half  critical,  and  half 
admiring.    Noel  could  not  bear  his  collar. 

''If  you  had  a  soft  collar  you'd  be  lovely,  Daddy. 


370  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

Perhaps  out  there  they'll  let  you  take  it  off.  It 
must  be  fearfully  hot  in  Egypt.  Oh !  I  wish  I  were 
going.  I  wish  I  were  going  everywhere  in  the  world. 
Some  day ! "  Presently  he  read  to  them,  Murray's 
"  Ilippoly tus "  of  Euripides.  And  now  and  then 
Gratian  and  he  discussed  a  passage.  But  Noel  lay 
silent,  looking  at  the  sky.  Whenever  his  voice  ceased, 
there  was  the  song  of  the  larks,  and  very  faint,  the 
distant  mutter  of  the  guns. 

They  stayed  up  there  till  past  six,  and  it  was  time 
to  go  and  have  tea  before  Evening  Service.  Those 
hours  in  the  baking  sun  had  drawn  virtue  out  of 
them;  they  were  silent  and  melancholy  all  the  eve- 
ning. Noel  was  the  first  to  go  up  to  her  bedroom. 
She  went  without  saying  good  night — she  knew 
her  father  would  come  to  her  room  that  last  eve- 
ning. George  had  not  yet  come  in;  and  Gratian 
was  left  alone  with  Pierson  in  the  drawing-room, 
round  whose  single  lamp,  in  spite  of  close-drawn 
curtains,  moths  were  circling.  She  moved  over  to 
him  on  the  sofa. 

"Dad,  promise  me  not  to  worry  about  NoUie; 
we'll  take  care  of  her." 

"She  can  only  take  care  of  herself,  Gracie,  and 
will  she?  Did  you  know  that  Captain  Fort  was 
here  yesterday?" 

"She  told  me." 

"What  is  her  feehng  about  him?" 

"I  don't  think  she  knows.  Nolhe  dreams  along, 
and  then  suddenly  rushes." 

"I  wish  she  were  safe  from  that  man." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  371 

"But,  Dad,  why?    George  likes  him  and  so  do 

I." 

A  big  grey  moth  was  fluttering  against  the  lamp. 
Pierson  got  up  and  caught  it  in  the  curve  of  his  palm. 
'Toor  thing!  You're  like  my  NoUie;  so  soft,  and 
dreamy,  so  feckless,  so  reckless."  And  going  to 
the  curtains,  he  thrust  his  hand  through,  and  re- 
leased the  moth. 

"Dad !"  said  Gratian  suddenly,  "we  can  only  find 
out  for  ourselves,  even  if  we  do  singe  our  wings  in 
doing  it.  We've  been  reading  James's  '  Pragmatism'. 
George  says  the  only  chapter  that's  important  is 
missing — the  one  on  ethics,  to  show  that  what  we 
do  is  not  wrong  till  it's  proved  wrong  by  the  result. 
I  suppose  he  was  afraid  to  dehver  that  lecture." 

Pierson's  face  wore  the  smile  which  always  came 
on  it  when  he  had  to  deal  with  George,  the  smile 
which  said:  'Ah,  George,  that's  very  clever;  but 
I  know.'' 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "that  doctrine  is  the  most 
dangerous  in  the  world.    I  am  surprised  at  George." 

"I  don't  think  George  is  in  danger.  Dad." 

"George  is  a  man  of  wide  experience  and  strong 
judgment  and  character;  but  think  how  fatal  it 
would  be  for  Nollie,  my  poor  Nollie,  whom  a  Httle 
gust  can  blow  into  the  candle." 

"Ail  the  same,"  said  Gratian  stubbornly,  "I 
don't  think  anyone  can  be  good  or  worth  anything 
unless  they  judge  for  themselves  and  take  risks." 

Pierson  went  close  to  her;  his  face  was  quiver- 
ing. 


372  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"Don't  let  us  differ  on  this  last  night;  I  must 
go  up  to  NoUie  for  a  minute,  and  then  to  bed.  I 
shan't  see  you  to-morrow;  you  mustn't  get  up;  I 
can  bear  parting  better  like  this.  And  my  train 
goes  at  eight.  God  bless  you,  Gracie;  give  George 
my  love.  I  know,  I  have  always  known  that  he's 
a  good  man,  though  we  do  fight  so.  Good-bye,  my 
darling." 

He  went  out  with  his  cheeks  wet  from  Gratian's 
tears,  and  stood  in  the  porch  a  minute  to  recover 
his  composure.  The  shadow  of  the  house  stretched 
velvet  and  blunt  over  the  rock-garden.  A  night- 
jar was  spinning;  the  churring  sound  affected  him 
oddly.  The  last  English  night-bird  he  would  hear. 
England!  What  a  night — to  say  good-bye!  'My 
beautiful  country!'  he  thought;  'my  wonderful 
country ! '  The  dew  was  lying  thick  and  silvery  al- 
ready on  the  little  patch  of  grass — the  last  dew, 
the  last  sweet  scent  of  an  EngUsh  night.  The  call 
of  a  bugle  floated  out.  "My  England !"  he  prayed; 
"God  be  about  you!"  A  little  sound  answered 
from  across  the  grass,  Hke  an  old  man's  cough,  and 
the  scrape  and  rattle  of  a  chain.  A  face  emerged 
at  the  edge  of  the  house's  shadow;  bearded  and 
homed  like  that  of  Pan,  it  seemed  to  stare  at  him. 
And  he  saw  the  dim  grey  form  of  the  garden  goat, 
heard  it  scuttle  round  the  stake  to  which  it  was 
tethered,  as  though  alarmed  at  this  visitor  to  its 
domain. 

He  went  up  the  half -flight  of  stairs  to  Noel's 
narrow  Httle  room,  next  the  nursery.     No  voice 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  373 

answered  his  tap.  It  was  dark,  but  he  could  see 
her  at  the  window,  leaning  far  out,  with  her  chin 
on  her  hands. 

"NoUie!" 

She  answered  without  turning:  "Such  a  lovely 
night,  Daddy.  Come  and  look !  I'd  like  to  set  the 
goat  free,  only  he'd  eat  the  rock  plants.  But  it  is 
his  night,  isn't  it?  He  ought  to  be  running  and 
skipping  in  it.  It's  such  a  shame  to  tie  things  up. 
Did  you  never  feel  wild  in  your  heart.  Daddy?" 

"Always,  I  think,  NolUe;  too  wild.  It's  been 
hard  to  tame  oneself." 

Noel  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm.  "Poor, 
poor!"  she  said.  "Let's  go  and  take  the  goat  and 
skip  together  on  the  hiUs.  If  only  we  had  a  penny 
whistle !  Did  you  hear  the  bugle  ?  The  bugle  and 
the  goat — diet's  make  a  poem  of  it !" 
•  Pierson  pressed  the  hand  against  him. 

"Nollie,  my  beloved,  be  good  while  I'm  away. 
You  know  what  I  don't  want.  I  told  you  in  my 
letter."  He  looked  at  her  cheek,  and  dared  say 
no  more.     Her  face  had  its  'fey'  look  again. 

"Don't  you  feel,"  she  said  suddenly,  "on  a  night 
like  this,  all  the  things,  all  the  things — the  stars 
have  lives,  Daddy,  and  the  moon  has  a  big  life,  and 
the  shadows  have,  and  the  moths  and  the  birds 
and  the  goats  and  the  trees,  and  the  flowers,  and  all 
of  us — escaped.  Oh!  Daddy,  why  is  there  a  war? 
And  why  are  people  so  bound  and  so  unhappy? 
Don't  tell  me  it's  God— don't!" 

Pierson  could  not  answer,  for  there  came  into 


/ 

/ 


374  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

his  mind  the  Greek  song  he  had  been  reading  aloud 
that  afternoon : 

"  O  for  a  deep  and  dewy  Spring, 
With  runlets  cold  to  draw  and  drink, 
And  a  great  meadow  blossoming, 
Long-grassed,  and  poplars  in  a  ring, 
To  rest  me  by  the  brink. 
O  take  me  to  the  mountain,  O, 
Past  the  great  pines  and  through  the  wood, 
Up  where  the  lean  hounds  softly  go, 
A-whine  for  wild  things'  blood. 
And  madly  flies  the  dappled  roe, 
O  God,  to  shout  and  speed  them  there; 
An  arrow  by  my  chestnut  hair 
Drawn  tight  and  one  keen  ghmmering  spear — 
Ah!  if  I  could!" 

All  that  in  life  had  been  to  him  unknown,  of  ven- 
ture and  wild  savour;  all  the  emotion  he  had  stifled; 
the  swift  Pan  he  had  denied;  the  sharp  fruits,  the 
burning  suns,  the  dark  pools,  and  unearthly  moon- 
light, which  were  not  of  God — all  came  with  the 
breath  of  that  old  song,  and  the  look  on  the  girl's 
face.    And  he  covered  his  eyes. 

Noel's  hand  tugged  at  his  arm.  "Isn't  beauty 
terribly  alive,"  she  murmured,  ''like  a  lovely  per- 
son;  it  makes  you  ache  to  kiss  it." 

His  lips  felt  parched.  ''There  is  a  beauty  beyond 
all  that,"  he  said  stubbornly. 

"Where?" 

"HoHness,  duty,  faith.  O  NolHe,  my  love!" 
But  Noel's  hand  tightened  on  his  arm. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  375 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  should  like?"  she  whis- 
pered. "To  take  God's  hand  and  show  Him  things. 
I'm  certain  He's  not  seen  everything." 

A  shudder  went  through  Pierson,  one  of  those 
queer  sudden  shivers,  which  come  from  a  strange 
note  in  a  voice,  or  a  new  sharp  scent  or  sight. 

"My  dear,  what  things  you  say!" 

"But  He  hasn't,  and  it's  time  He  did.  We'd 
creep,  and  peep,  and  see  it  all  for  once,  as  He  can't 
in  His  churches.  Daddy,  oh  I  Daddy !  I  can't  bear 
it  any  more ;  to  think  of  them  being  killed  on  a  night 
like  this;  killed  and  killed  so  that  they  never  see 
it  all  again — never  see  it — never  see  it !"  She  sank 
down,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  arms. 

"I  can't,  I  can't!  Oh!  take  it  all  away,  the 
cruelty!  Why  does  it  come — why  the  stars  and 
the  flowers,  if  God  doesn't  care  any  more  than 
that?" 

Horribly  affected  he  stood  bending  over  her,  strok- 
ing her  head.  Then  the  habit  of  a  hundred  death- 
beds helped  him.  "Come,Nolhe!  This  Hfe  is  but 
a  minute.    We  must  all  die." 

"But  not  they — ^not  so  young!"  She  clung  to 
his  knees,  and  looked  up.  "Daddy,  I  don't  want 
you  to  go;  promise  me  to  come  back!" 

The  childishness  of  those  words  brought  back  his 
balance. 

"My  dear  sweetheart,  of  course!  Come,  Nolhe, 
get  up.    The  sun's  been  too  much  for  you." 

Noel  got  up,  and  put  her  hands  on  her  father's 
shoulders.    "Forgive  me  for  all  my  badness,  Daddy, 


/ 

/     376  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

I  and  all  my  badness  to  come,  especially  all  my  bad- 
ness to  come!" 

Pierson  smiled.  "I  shall  always  forgive  you, 
NoUie;  but  there  won't  be — there  mustn't  be — any 
badness  to  come.  I  pray  God  to  keep  you,  and  make 
you  like  your  mother." 

"Mother  never  had  a  devil,  like  you  and  me." 

He  was  silent  from  surprise.  How  did  this  child 
know  the  devil  of  wild  feeling  he  had  fought  against 
year  after  year,  until  with  the  many  years  he  had 
felt  it  weakening  within  him ! 

She  whispered  on:  " I  don't  hate  my  devil.  Why 
should  I — it's  part  of  me.  Every  day  when  the 
sun  sets,  I'll  think  of  you.  Daddy;  and  you  might 
do  the  same — that'll  keep  me  good.  I  shan't  come 
to  the  station  to-morrow,  I  should  only  cry.  And 
I  shan't  say  good-bye  now.    It's  unlucky." 

She  flung  her  arms  round  him ;  and  half  smothered 
by  that  fervent  embrace,  he  kissed  her  cheeks  and 
hair.  Freed  of  each  other  at  last,  he  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  at  her  by  the  moonlight. 

"There  never  was  anyone  more  loving  and  lov- 
able than  you,  NoUie!"  he  said  quietly.  "Remem- 
ber my  letter.  And  good  night,  my  love!"  Then, 
afraid  to  stay  another  second,  he  went  quickly  out 
of  the  dark  little  room.  ... 

George  Laird,  returning  half  an  hour  later,  heard 
a  voice  saying  softly:   "George,  George!" 

Looking  up,  he  saw  a  little  white  blur  at  the  win- 
dow, and  Noel's  face  just  visible. 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  377 

"George,  let  the  goat  loose,  just  for  to-night. 
It's  Daddy's  last  night;  to  please  me." 

Something  in  that  voice,  and  in  the  gesture  of 
her  stretched-out  arm  moved  George  in  a  queer 
way,  although,  as  Pierson  had  once  said,  he  had 
no  music  in  his  souL    He  loosed  the  goat. 


IV 

I§ 

In  the  weeks  which  succeeded  Pierson's  departure, 
Gratian  and  George  often  discussed  Noel's  conduct 
and  position  by  the  Hght  of  the  Pragmatic  theory. 
George  held  a  suitably  scientific  view.  Just  as — ^he 
would  point  out  to  his  wife — ^in  the  physical  world, 
creatures  who  diverged  from  the  normal  had  to 
justify  their  divergence  in  competition  with  their 
environments,  or  else  go  under,  so  in  the  ethical 
world  it  was  all  a  question  of  whether  NoUie  could 
make  good  her  vagary.  If  she  could,  and  grew  in 
strength  of  character  thereby,  it  was  ipso  facto  aU 
right,  her  vagary  would  be  proved  an  advantage, 
and  the  world  enriched.  If  not,  the  world  by  her 
failure  to  make  good  would  be  impoverished,  and 
her  vagary  proved  wrong.  The  orthodox  and  aca- 
demic— ^he  insisted — ^were  always  forgetting  the 
adaptability  of  living  organisms;  how  every  action 
which  was  out  of  the  ordinary,  unconsciously  modi- 
fied all  the  other  actions  together  with  the  outlook, 
and  philosophy  of  the  doer.  "Of  course  NoUie  was 
crazy,"  he  said,  "but  when  she  did  what  she  did, 
she  at  once  began  to  think  differently  about  Hfe 
and  morals.  The  deepest  instinct  we  all  have  is 
the  instinct  that  we  must  do  what  we  must,  and 

378 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  379 

think  that  what  we've  done  is  really  all  right;  in 
fact  the  instinct  of  self-preservation.  We're  all 
fighting  animals;  and  we  feel  in  our  bones  that  if 
we  admit  we're  beaten — v/e  are  beaten;  but  that 
every  fight  we  win,  especially  against  odds,  hardens 
those  bones.  But  personally  I  don't  think  she  can 
make  good  on  her  own." 

Gratian,  whose  pragmatism  was  not  yet  fully 
baked,  responded  doubtfully: 

"No,  I  don't  think  she  can.  And  if  she  could 
I'm  not  sure.  But  isn't  Pragmatism  a  perfectly 
beastly  word,  George  ?  It  has  no  sense  of  humour  in 
it  at  all." 

"It  is  a  bit  thick,  and  in  the  hands  of  the  young, 
deuced  likely  to  become  Prigmatism;  but  not  with 
NolHe. 

They  watched  the  victim  of  their  discussions 
with  real  anxiety.  The  knowledge  that  she  would 
never  be  more  sheltered  than  she  was  ■v\ith  them, 
at  aU  events  until  she  married,  gravely  impeded 
the  formation  of  any  judgment  as  to  whether  or 
no  she  could  make  good.  Now  and  again  there 
would  come  to  Gratian — ^who  after  all  knew  her 
sister  better  than  George — the  disquieting  thought 
that  whatever  conclusion  Noel  led  them  to  form, 
she  would  almost  certainly  force  them  to  abandon 
sooner  or  later. 

Three  days  after  her  father's  departure  Noel  had 
'  declared  that  she  wanted  to  work  on  the  land.  This 
George  had  promptly  vetoed. 

"You  aren't  strong  enough  yet,  my  dear.    Wait 


380  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

till  the  harvest  begins.  Then  you  can  go  and  help 
on  the  farm  here.  If  you  can  stand  that  without 
damage,  we'll  think  about  it." 

But  the  weather  was  wet  and  harvest  late,  and 
Noel  had  nothing  much  to  do  but  attend  to  her 
baby,  already  weU  attended  to  by  Nurse,  and  dream 
and  brood,  and  now  and  then  cook  an  omelette  or 
do  some  housework  for  the  sake  of  a  gnawing  con- 
science. Since  Gratian  and  George  were  away  in 
hospital  all  day,  she  was  very  much  alone.  Several 
times  in  the  evenings  Gratian  tried  to  come  at  the 
core  of  her  thoughts.  Twice  she  flew  the  kite  of 
Leila.  The  first  time  Noel  only  answered:  "Yes, 
she's  a  brick."  The  second  time,  she  said :  "I  don't 
want  to  think  about  her." 

But,  hardening  her  heart,  Gratian  went  on: 
"Don't  you  think  it's  queer  we've  never  heard  from 
Captain  Fort  since  he  came  down?" 

In  her  calmest  voice  Noel  answered:  "Why  should 
we,  after  being  told  that  he  wasn't  liked?" 

"Who  told  him  that?" 

"I  told  him,  that  Daddy  didn't;  but  I  expect 
Daddy  said  much  worse  things."  She  gave  a  little 
laugh,  then  softly  added:  "Daddy's  wonderful, 
isn't  he?" 

"How?" 

"The  way  he  drives  one  to  do  the  other  thing. 
If  he  hadn't  opposed  my  marriage  to  Cyril,  you 
know,  that  wouldn't  have  happened,  it  just  made 
all  the  difference.  It  stirred  me  up  so  fearfuUy." 
Gratian  stared  at  her,  astonished  that  she  could 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  381 

see  herself  so  clearly.    Towards  the  end  of  August 
she  had  a  letter  from  Fort. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Laird, 

"You  know  all  about  things,  of  course,  except  the  one 
thing  which  to  me  is  all  important.  I  can't  go  on  without 
knowing  whether  I  have  a  chance  with  your  sister.  It  is 
against  your  father's  expressed  wish  that  she  should  have 
anything  to  do  with  me,  but  I  told  him  that  I  could  not  and 
would  not  promise  not  to  ask  her.  I  get  my  holiday  at  the 
end  of  this  month,  and  am  coming  down  to  put  it  to  the 
touch.     It  means  more  to  me  than  you  can  possibly  imagine. 

"I  am,  dear  Mrs.  Laird, 
"Your  very  faithful  servant, 

"James  Fort." 

She  discussed  the  letter  with  George,  whose  ad- 
vice was:  "Answer  it  politely,  but  say  notliing; 
and  nothing  to  Nollie.  I  think  it  would  be  a  very 
good  thing.  Of  course  it's  a  bit  of  a  makeshift — 
twice  her  age;  but  he's  a  genuine  man,  if  not  ex- 
actly brilliant." 

Gratian  answered  almost  sullenly:  "I've  always 
wanted  the  very  best  for  Nollie." 

George  screwed  up  his  steel-coloured  eyes,  as 
he  might  have  looked  at  one  on  whom  he  had  to 
operate.  "Quite  so,"  he  said.  "But  you  must 
remember,  Gracie,  that  out  of  the  swan  she  was, 
Nollie  has  made  herself  into  a  lame  duck.  Fifty 
per  cent  at  least  is  off  her  value,  socially.  We  must 
look  at  things  as  they  are." 

"Father  is  dead  against  it." 

George  smiled,  on  the  point  of  saying:    'That 


382  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

makes  me  feel  it  must  be  a  good  thing.'  But  he 
subdued  the  impulse. 

''I  agree  that  we're  bound  by  his  absence  not  to 
further  it  actively.  Still  Nollie  knows  his  wishes, 
and  it's  up  to  her  and  no  one  else.  After  all,  she's 
no  longer  a  child." 

His  advice  was  followed.  But  to  write  that  polite 
letter,  which  said  nothing,  cost  Gratian  a  sleepless 
night,  and  two  or  three  hours'  penmanship.  She 
was  very  conscientious.  Knowledge  of  this  im- 
pending visit  increased  the  anxiety  with  wliich  she 
watched  her  sister,  but  the  only  inkling  she  obtained 
of  Noel's  state  of  mind  was  when  the  girl  showed 
her  a  letter  she  had  received  from  Thirza,  asking 
her  to  come  back  to  Kestrel.  A  postscript,  in  Uncle 
Bob's  handwriting,  added  these  words: 

"We're  getting  quite  fossilised  down  here;  Eve's  gone 
and  left  us  again.  We  miss  you  and  the  youngster  awfully. 
Come  along  down,  Nollie — there's  a  dear ! " 

"They're  darhngs,"  Noel  said,  "but  I  shan't  go. 
I'm  too  restless,  ever  since  Daddy  went;  you  don't 
know  how  restless.  This  rain  simply  makes  me  want 
to  die." 


The  weather  improved  next  day,  and  at  the  end 
of  that  week  harvest  began.  By  what  seemed  to 
Noel  a  stroke  of  luck  the  farmer's  binder  was  broken; 
he  could  not  get  it  repaired,  and  wanted  all  the  hu- 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  383 

man  binders  he  could  get.  That  first  day  in  the 
fields  bUstered  her  hands,  burnt  her  face  and  neck, 
made  every  nerve  and  bone  in  her  body  ache;  but 
was  the  happiest  day  she  had  spent  for  weeks,  the 
happiest  perhaps  since  Cyril  Morland  left  her,  over 
a  year  ago.  She  had  a  bath  and  went  to  bed  the 
moment  she  got  in. 

Lying  there  nibbling  chocolate  and  smoking  a 
cigarette,  she  luxuriated  in  the  weariness  which  had 
stilled  her  dreadful  restlessness.  Watching  the  smoke 
of  her  cigarette  curl  up  against  the  sunset  glow 
which  filled  her  window,  she  thought:  'If  only  I 
could  be  tired  out  like  this  every  day ! '  She  would 
be  all  right  then,  would  lose  the  feehng  of  not  know- 
ing what  she  wanted,  of  being  in  a  sort  of  large  box, 
with  the  Ud  slammed  down,  roaming  round  it  Hke 
a  dazed  and  homesick  bee  in  an  overturned  tumbler; 
the  feeling  of  being  only  half  aHve,  of  having  a  wing 
maimed  so  that  she  could  only  fly  a  httle  way,  and 
must  then  drop. 

She  slept  like  a  top  that  night.  But  the  next 
day's  work  was  real  torture,  and  the  third  not  much 
better.  By  the  end  of  the  week,  however,  she  was 
no  longer  stiff. 

Saturday  was  cloudless;  a  perfect  day.  The 
field  she  was  working  in  lay  on  a  slope.  It  was  the 
last  field  to  be  cut,  and  the  best  wheat  yet,  with  a 
glorious  burnt  shade  in  its  gold  and  the  ears  blunt 
and  full.  She  had  got  used  now  to  the  feel  of  the 
great  sheaves  in  her  arms,  and  the  binding  wisps 
dra\vn  through  her  hand  till  she  held  them  level, 


384  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

below  the  ears,  ready  for  the  twist.  There  was  no 
new  sensation  in  it  now;  just  steady,  rather  dreamy 
work,  to  keep  her  place  in  the  row,  to  the  swish- 
swish  of  the  cutter  and  the  call  of  the  driver  to  his 
horses  at  the  turns;  with  continual  Httle  pauses, 
to  straighten  and  rest  her  back  a  moment,  and  shake 
her  head  free  from  the  flies,  or  suck  her  finger,  sore 
from  the  constant  pushing  of  the  straw  ends  under. 
So  the  hours  went  on,  rather  hot  and  wearisome, 
yet  with  a  feeling  of  somethmg  good  being  done, 
of  a  job  getting  surely  to  its  end.  And  gradually 
the  centre  patch  narrowed,  and  the  sun  slowly 
slanted  do\vn. 

When  they  stopped  for  tea,  instead  of  running 
home  as  usual,  she  drank  it  cold  out  of  a  flask  she 
had  brought,  ate  a  bun  and  some  chocolate,  and 
lay  down  on  her  back  against  the  hedge.  She  always 
avoided  that  group  of  her  fellow  workers  round 
the  tea-cans  which  the  farmer's  wife  brought  out. 
To  avoid  people,  if  she  could,  had  become  habitual 
to  her  now.  They  must  know  about  her,  or  would 
soon  if  she  gave  them  the  chance.  She  had  never 
lost  consciousness  of  her  ring-finger,  expecting  every 
eye  to  fall  on  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  Lying  on  her 
face,  she  puffed  her  cigarette  into  the  grass,  and 
watched  a  beetle,  till  one  of  the  sheep-dogs,  scout- 
ing for  scraps,  came  up,  and  she  fed  him  with  her 
second  bun.  Having  finished  the  bun,  he  tried  to 
eat  the  beetle,  and,  when  she  rescued  it,  comdnced 
that  she  had  nothing  more  to  give  him,  sneezed 
at  her,  and  went  away.     Pressing  the  end  of  her 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  385 

cigarette  out  against  the  bank,  she  turned  over. 
Already  the  driver  was  perched  on  his  tiny  seat, 
and  his  companion,  whose  business  it  was  to  free 
the  falling  corn,  was  getting  up  alongside.  Swish — 
swish !  It  had  begun  again.  She  rose,  stretched 
herself,  and  went  back  to  her  place  in  the  row.  The 
field  would  be  finished  to-night;  she  would  have  a 
lovely  rest — all  Sunday!  Towards  seven  o'clock  a 
narrow  strip,  not  twenty  yards  broad,  alone  was 
left.  This  last  half  hour  was  what  Noel  dreaded. 
To-day  it  was  worse,  for  the  farmer  had  no  cart- 
ridges left,  and  the  rabbits  were  dealt  with  by  huUa- 
baloo  and  sticks  and  chasing  dogs.  Rabbits  were 
vermin,  of  course,  and  ate  the  crops,  and  must  be 
killed;  besides,  they  were  good  food,  and  fetched 
two  shiUings  apiece;  aU  this  she  knew — ^but  to  see 
the  poor  frightened  things  steahng  out,  pounced 
on,  turned,  shouted  at,  chased,  rolled  over  by  great 
swift  dogs,  fallen  on  by  the  boys  and  killed  and 
carried  with  their  hmp  grey  bodies  upside  down, 
so  dead  and  soft  and  helpless,  always  made  her  feel 
quite  sick.  She  stood  very  still,  trying  not  to  see 
or  hear,  and  in  the  com  opposite  to  her  a  rabbit 
stole  along,  crouched,  and  peeped.  'Oh!'  she 
thought,  'come  out  here,  bunny.  I'll  let  you  away 
— can't  you  see  I  will  ?  It's  your  only  chance.  Come 
out!'  But  the  rabbit  crouched,  and  gazed,  with 
its  httle  cowed  head  poked  forward,  and  its  ears 
laid  flat;  it  seemed  trying  to  understand  whether 
this  still  thing  in  front  of  it  was  the  same  as  those 
others.     With   the    thought,   'Of  course    it  won't 


386  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

while  I  look  at  it/  Noel  turned  her  head  away.  Out 
of  the  comer  of  her  eye  she  could  see  a  man  standing 
a  few  yards  off.  The  rabbit  bolted  out.  Now  the 
man  would  shout  and  turn  it.  But  he  did  not,  and 
the  rabbit  scuttled  past  him  and  away  to  the  hedge. 
She  heard  a  shout  from  the  end  of  the  row,  saw  a 
dog  galloping.  Too  late !  Hurrah !  And  clasping 
her  hands,  she  looked  at  the  man.  It  was  Fort! 
With  the  queerest  feeling — amazement,  pleasure, 
the  thrill  of  conspiracy,  she  saw  him  coming  up  to 
her. 

"I  did  want  that  rabbit  to  get  off,"  she  sighed 
out;   "I've  been  watching  it.    Thank  you!" 

He  looked  at  her.  "My  goodness!"  was  all  he 
said. 

Noel's  hands  flew  up  to  her  cheeks.  "Yes,  I 
know;  is  my  nose  very  red?" 

"No;  you're  as  lovely  as  Ruth,  if  she  was  lovely." 

Swish — swish !  The  cutter  came  by;  Noel  started 
forward  to  her  place  in  the  row;  but  catching  her 
arm,  he  said :  "  No,  let  me  do  this  httle  bit.  I  haven't 
had  a  day  in  the  fields  since  the  war  began.  Talk 
to  me  while  I'm  binding." 

She  stood  watching  him.  He  made  a  different, 
stronger  twist  from  hers,  and  took  larger  sheaves, 
so  that  she  felt  a  sort  of  jealousy. 

"I  didn't  know  you  knew  about  this  sort  of 
thing." 

"Oh,  Lord,  yes!  I  had  a  farm  once  out  West. 
Nothing  like  field-work,  to  make  you  feel  good. 
I've  been  watching  you;   you  bind  jolly  well." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  387 

Noel  gave  a  sigh  of  pleasure. 

"Where  have  you  come  from?"  she  asked. 

"Straight  from  the  station.  I'm  on  my  holi- 
day." He  looked  up  at  her,  and  they  both  fell 
silent. 

Swish — swish !  The  cutter  was  coming  again. 
Noel  went  to  the  beginning  of  her  portion  of  the 
falling  corn,  he  to  the  end  of  it.  They  worked 
towards  each  other,  and  met  before  the  cutter  was 
on  them  a  third  time. 

"Will  you  come  in  to  supper?" 

"I'd  love  to." 

"Then  let's  go  now,  please.  I  don't  want  to  see 
any  more  rabbits  killed." 

They  spoke  very  little  on  the  way  to  the  bungalow, 
but  she  felt  his  eyes  on  her  all  the  time.  She  left 
him  with  George  and  Gratian  who  had  just  come  in, 
and  went  up  for  her  bath. 

Supper  had  been  laid  out  in  the  veranda,  and 
it  was  nearly  dark  before  they  had  finished.  In 
rhyme  with  the  failing  of  the  Hght  Noel  became 
more  and  more  silent.  When  they  went  in,  she  ran 
up  to  her  baby.  She  did  not  go  down  again,  but  as 
on  the  night  before  her  father  went  away,  stood 
at  her  window,  leaning  out.  A  dark  night,  no  moon ; 
in  the  starhght  she  could  only  just  see  the  dim  gar- 
den, where  no  goat  was  grazing.  Now  that  her 
first  excitement  had  worn  off,  this  sudden  reappear- 
ance of  Fort  filled  her  with  nervous  melancholy. 
She  knew  perfectly  well  what  he  had  come  for,  she 
had  always  known.    She  had  no  certain  knowledge 


388  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

of  her  own  mind;  but  she  knew  that  all  these  weeks 
she  had  been  between  his  influence  and  her  father's, 
listening  to  them,  as  it  were,  pleading  with  her. 
And,  curiously,  the  pleading  of  each,  instead  of 
drawing  her  towards  the  pleader,  had  seemed  drag- 
ging her  away  from  him,  driving  her  into  the  arms 
of  the  other.  To  the  protection  of  one  or  the 
other  she  felt  she  must  go;  and  it  humihated  her 
to  think  that  in  all  the  world  there  was  no  other 
place  for  her.  The  wildness  of  that  one  night 
in  the  old  Abbey  seemed  to  have  power  to 
govern  all  her  Ufe  to  come.  Why  should  that  one 
night,  that  one  act,  have  this  uncanny  power  to 
drive  her  this  way  or  that,  to  those  arms  or  these? 
Must  she,  because  of  it,  always  need  protection? 
Standing  there  in  the  dark  it  was  almost  as  if  they 
had  come  up  behind  her,  with  their  pleadings;  and 
a  shiver  ran  down  her  back.  She  longed  to  turn 
on  them,  and  cry  out:  'Go  away;  oh,  go  away! 
I  don't  want  either  of  you;  I  just  want  to  be  left 
alone ! '  Then  something,  a  moth  perhaps,  touched 
her  neck.  She  gasped  and  shook  herself.  How 
silly ! 

She  heard  the  back  door  round  the  comer  of  the 
house  opening;  a  man's  low  voice  down  in  the 
dark  said: 

''Who's  the  young  lady  that  comes  out  in  the 
fields?" 

Another  voice — one  of  the  maids — answered: 

"The  Missis's  sister." 
'They  say  she's  got  a  baby." 


ii> 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  389 

"Never  you  mind  what  she's  got." 

Noel  heard  the  man's  laugh.  It  seemed  to  her 
the  most  odious  laugh  she  had  ever  heard.  She 
thought  swiftly  and  absurdly:  'I'U  get  away  from 
aU  this.'  The  window  was  only  a  few  feet  up.  She 
got  out  on  to  the  ledge,  let  herself  down,  and  dropped. 
There  was  a  flower-bed  below,  quite  soft,  with  a 
scent  of  geranium-leaves  and  earth.  She  brushed 
herself,  and  went  tiptoeing  across  the  gravel  and 
the  little  front  lawn,  to  the  gate.  The  house  was 
quite  dark,  quite  silent.  She  walked  on,  down  the 
road.  'JoUy!'  she  thought.  'Night  after  night 
we  sleep,  and  never  see  the  nights:  sleep  until  we're 
called,  and  never  see  anything.  If  they  want  to 
catch  me  they'll  have  to  run.'  And  she  began  run- 
ning down  the  road  in  her  evening  frock  and  shoes, 
with  nothing  on  her  head.  She  stopped  after  going 
perhaps  three  hundred  yards,  by  the  edge  of  the 
wood.  It  was  splendidly  dark  in  there,  and  she 
groped  her  way  from  trunk  to  trunk,  with  a  delicious, 
half-scared  sense  of  adventure  and  novelty.  She 
stopped  at  last  by  a  thin  trunk  whose  bark  glimmered 
faintly.  She  felt  it  with  her  cheek,  quite  smooth — 
a  birch-tree;  and,  with  her  arms  round  it,  she  stood 
perfectly  still.  Wonderfully,  magically  silent,  fresh 
and  sweet-scented  and  dark !  The  little  tree  trembled 
suddenly  within  her  arms,  and  she  heard  the  low 
distant  rumble,  to  which  she  had  grown  so  accus- 
tomed— the  guns,  always  at  work,  killing — ^killing 
men  and  killing  trees,  little  trees  perhaps  like  this 
within  her  arms,  Uttle  trembUng  trees !    Out  there, 


390  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

in  this  dark  night,  there  would  not  be  a  single  un- 
scarred  tree  Hke  this  smooth  quivering  thing,  no 
fields  of  com,  not  even  a  bush  or  a  blade  of  grass, 
no  leaves  to  rustle  and  smell  sweet,  not  a  bird,  no 
little  soft-footed  night  beasts,  except  the  rats;  and 
she  shuddered,  thinking  of  the  Belgian  soldier- 
painter.  Holding  the  tree  tight,  she  squeezed  its 
smooth  body  against  her.  A  rush  of  the  same  help- 
less, hopeless  revolt  and  sorrow  overtook  her,  which 
had  wrung  from  her  that  passionate  httle  outburst 
to  her  father,  the  night  before  he  went  away. 
Killed,  torn,  and  bruised;  burned,  and  killed,  like 
Cyril !     All  the  young  things,  hke  this  httle  tree. 

Rumble!  Rumble!  Quiver!  Quiver!  And  all 
else  so  still,  so  sweet  and  still,  and  starry,  up  there 
through  the  leaves.  ...  'I  can't  bear  it!'  she 
thought.  She  pressed  her  lips,  wliich  the  sun  had 
warmed  all  day,  against  the  satiny  smooth  bark. 
But  the  Httle  tree  stood  within  her  arms  insentient, 
quivering  only  to  the  long  rumbles.  With  each  of 
those  dull  mutterings,  life  and  love  were  going  out, 
like  the  flames  of  candies  on  a  Christmas-tree,  blown, 
one  by  one.  To  her  eyes,  accustomed  by  now  to  the 
darkness  in  there,  the  wood  seemed  slowly  to  be 
gathering  a  sort  of  life,  as  though  it  were  a  great 
thing  watching  her;  a  great  thing  with  hundreds 
of  limbs  and  eyes,  and  the  power  of  breathing.  The 
little  tree,  which  had  seemed  so  individual  and 
friendly,  ceased  to  be  a  comfort  and  became  a  part 
of  the  whole  hving  wood,  absorbed  in  itself,  and 
coldly  watching  her,  this  intruder  of  the  mischievous 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  391 

breed,  the  fatal  breed  which  loosed  those  rumblings 
on  the  earth.  Noel  unlocked  her  arms,  and  re- 
coiled. A  bough  scraped  her  neck,  some  leaves 
flew  against  her  eyes;  she  stepped  aside,  tripped 
over  a  root,  and  fell.  A  bough  had  hit  her  too,  and 
she  lay  a  little  dazed,  quivering  at  such  dark  un- 
friendliness. She  held  her  hands  up  to  her  face  for 
the  mere  pleasure  of  seeing  something  a  Httle  less 
dark;  it  was  childish,  and  absurd,  but  she  was 
frightened.  The  wood  seemed  to  have  so  many 
eyes,  so  many  arms,  and  all  unfriendly;  it  seemed 
waiting  to  give  her  other  blows,  other  falls,  and  to 
guard  her  within  its  darkness  until — !  She  got 
up,  moved  a  few  steps,  and  stood  still,  she  had  for- 
gotten from  where  she  had  come  in.  And  afraid 
of  moving  deeper  into  the  unfriendly  wood,  she 
turned  slowly  round,  trying  to  tell  which  way  to 
go.  It  was  aU  just  one  dark  watching  thing,  of  limbs 
on  the  ground  and  in  the  air.  'Any  way,'  she 
thought;  'any  way  of  course  will  take  me  out!' 
And  she  groped  forward,  keeping  her  hands  up  to 
guard  her  face.  It  was  silly,  but  she  could  not  help 
the  sinking,  scattered  feeling  which  comes  to  one 
bushed,  or  lost  in  a  fog.  If  the  wood  had  not  been 
so  dark,  so — ahve!  And  for  a  second  she  had  the 
senseless,  terrifying  thought  of  a  child:  'What  if 
I  never  get  out ! '  Then  she  laughed  at  it,  and  stood 
still  again,  listening.  There  was  no  sound  to  guide 
her,  no  sound  at  all  except  that  faint  dull  rumble, 
which  seemed  to  come  from  every  side,  now.  And 
the  trees  watched  her.     'Ugh!'  she  thought;    'I 


392  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

hate  this  wood !  *  She  saw  it  now,  its  snaky  branches, ' 
its  darkness,  and  great  forms,  as  an  abode  of  giants 
and  witches.  She  groped  and  scrambled  on  again, 
tripped  once  more,  and  fell,  hitting  her  forehead 
against  a  tnmk.  The  blow  dazed  and  sobered  her. 
'It's  idiotic,'  she  thought;  'I'm  a  baby!  I'll  just 
walk  very  slowly  till  I  reach  the  edge.  I  know  it 
isn't  a  large  wood!'  She  turned  deliberately  to 
face  each  direction;  solemnly  selected  that  from 
which  the  muttering  of  the  guns  seemed  to  come, 
and  started  again,  moving  very  slowly  with  her 
hands  stretched  out.  Something  rustled  in  the 
undergrowth,  quite  close;  she  saw  a  pair  of  green 
eyes  shining.  Her  heart  jumped  into  her  mouth. 
The  thing  sprang — there  was  a  swish  of  ferns  and 
twigs,  and — silence.  Noel  clasped  her  breast.  A 
poaching  cat !  And  again  she  moved  forward.  But 
she  had  lost  direction.  'I'm  going  round  and  round,' 
she  thought.  'They  always  do.'  And  the  sinking 
scattered  feeling  of  the  'bushed'  clutched  at  her 
again.  '  Shall  I  call  ? '  she  thought.  '  I  must  be  near 
the  road.  But  it's  so  babyish.'  She  moved  on  again. 
Her  foot  struck  something  soft.  A  voice  muttered 
a  thick  oath;  a  hand  seized  her  ankle.  She  leaped, 
and  dragged  and  wrenched  it  free;  and,  utterly 
unnerved,  she  screamed,  and  ran  forward  blindly. 


No  one  could  have  so  convinced  a  feeling  as 
Jimmy  Fort  that  he  would  be  a  'bit  of  a  makeshift' 
for  Noel.  He  had  spent  the  weeks  after  his  inter- 
view with  her  father  obsessed  by  her  image,  often 
saying  to  himself:  'It  won't  do.  It's  playing  it 
too  low  down  to  try  and  get  that  child,  when  I 
know  that,  but  for  her  trouble,  I  shouldn't  have 
a  chance.'  He  had  never  had  much  opinion  of  his 
looks,  but  now  he  seemed  to  himself  absurdly  old 
and  dried-up  in  this  desert  of  a  London.  He  loathed 
the  Office  job  to  which  they  had  put  him,  and  the 
whole  atmosphere  of  officialdom.  Another  year  of 
it,  and  he  would  shrivel  like  an  old  apple !  He  began 
to  look  at  himself  anxiously,  taking  stock  of  his 
physical  assets  now  that  he  had  this  dream  of  young 
beauty.  He  would  be  forty  next  month,  and  she 
was  nineteen !  But  there  would  be  times  too  when 
he  would  feel  that,  with  her,  he  could  be  as  much 
of  a  *  three-year-old '  as  the  youngster  she  had  loved. 
Having  Uttle  hope  of  winning  her,  he  took  her  'past* 
but  lightly.  Was  it  not  that  past  which  gave  him 
what  chance  he  had  ?  On  two  things  he  was  deter- 
mined: He  would  not  trade  on  her  past.  And  if 
by  any  chance  she  took  him,  he  would  never  show 
her  that  he  remembered  that  she  had  one. 

After  writing  to  Gratian  he  had  spent  the  week 

393 


394 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


before  his  holiday  began,  in  an  attempt  to  renew 
the  youthfulness  of  his  appearance,  which  made 
him  feel  older,  leaner,  bonier  and  browner  than 
ever.  He  got  up  early,  rode  in  the  rain,  took  Turk- 
ish baths,  and  did  all  manner  of  exercises;  neither 
smoked  nor  drank,  and  went  to  bed  early,  exactly 
as  if  he  had  been  going  to  ride  a  steeplechase.  On 
the  afternoon,  when  at  last  he  left  on  that  terrific 
pilgrimage,  he  gazed  at  his  face  with  a  sort  of 
despair,  it  was  so  lean,  and  leather-coloured,  and 
he  counted  almost  a  dozen  grey  hairs. 

When  he  reached .  the  bungalow,  and  was  told 
that  she  was  working  in  the  corn-fields,  he  had  for 
the  first  time  a  feeling  that  Fate  was  on  his  side. 
Such  a  meeting  would  be  easier  than  any  other! 
He  had  been  watching  her  for  several  minutes  be- 
fore she  saw  him,  with  his  heart  beating  more  vio- 
lently than  it  had  ever  beaten  in  the  trenches;  and 
that  new  feeling  of  hope  stayed  with  him  all  through 
the  greeting,  throughout  supper,  and  even  after 
she  had  left  them  and  gone  upstairs.  Then,  with 
the  suddenness  of  a  blind  drawn  down,  it  vanished, 
and  he  sat  on,  trying  to  talk,  and  slowly  getting 
more  and  more  silent  and  restless. 

*'Nolhe  gets  so  tired,  working,"  Gratian  said. 
He  knew  she  meant  it  kindly  but  that  she  should 
say  it  at  all  was  ominous.  He  got  up  at  last,  having 
lost  hope  of  seeing  Noel  again,  conscious  too  that 
he  had  answered  the  last  three  questions  at  random. 

In  the  porch  George  said:  ''You'll  come  in  to 
lunch  to-morrow,  won't  you?" 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  395 

"Oh,  thanks,  I'm  afraid  it'll  bore  you  all." 
"Not  a  bit.  Nollie  won't  be  so  tired." 
Again — so  well  meant.  They  were  very  kind. 
He  looked  up  from  the  gate,  tr}dng  to  make  out 
which  her  window  might  be;  but  all  was  dark.  A 
little  way  down  the  road  he  stopped  to  light  a 
cigarette;  and,  leaning  against  a  gate,  drew  the 
smoke  of  it  deep  into  his  lungs,  trying  to  assuage 
the  ache  in  his  heart.  So  it  was  hopeless !  She  had 
taken  the  first,  the  very  first  chance,  to  get  away 
from  him !  She  knew  that  he  loved  her,  could  not 
help  knowing,  for  he  had  never  been  able  to  keep 
it  out  of  his  eyes  and  voice.  If  she  had  felt  ever 
so  little  for  him,  she  would  not  have  avoided  him 
this  first  evening.  'I'll  go  back  to  that  desert,'  he 
thought;  'I'm  not  going  to  whine  and  crawl.  I'll 
go  back,  and  bite  on  it;  one  must  have  some  pride. 
Oh,  why  the  hell  am  I  crocked-up  Hke  this  ?  If  only 
I  could  get  out  to  France  again ! '  And  then  Noel's 
figure  bent  over  the  falling  com  formed  before  him. 
'I'll [have  one  more  try,'  he  thought;  'one  more — 
to-morrow  somewhere,  I'll  get  to  know  for  certain. 
And  if  I  get  what  Leila's  got  I  shall  deserve  it,  I 
suppose.  Poor  Leila!  Where  is  she?  Back  at 
High  Constantia?'  What  was  that?  A  cry — of 
terror — ^in  that  wood !  Crossing  to  the  edge,  he 
called  'Coo-ee !'  and  stood  peering  into  its  darkness. 
He  heard  the  sound  of  bushes  being  brushed  aside, 
and  whistled.  A  figure  came  bursting  out,  almost 
into  his  arms. 

"Hallo!"  he  said;   "what's  up?" 


396  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 


t» 


A  voice  gasped:   "Oh!    It's — ^it's  nothing ! ■ 

He  saw  Noel.  She  had  swayed  back,  and  stood 
about  a  yard  away.  He  could  dimly  see  her  cover- 
ing her  face  with  her  arms.  Feeling  instinctively 
that  she  wanted  to  hide  her  fright,  he  said  quietly : 

"What  luck!  I  was  just  passing.  It's  awfully 
dark." 

"I — I  got  lost;  and  a  man — caught  my  foot,  in 
there!" 

Moved  beyond  control  by  the  httle  gulps  and 
gasps  of  her  breathing,  he  stepped  forward  and  put 
his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  He  held  her  Hghtly, 
without  speaking,  terrified  lest  he  should  wound  her 
pride. 

"I — I  got  in  there,"  she  gasped,  "and  the  trees — 
and  I  stumbled  over  a  man  asleep,  and  he " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  he  murmured,  as  if  to  a  child. 
She  had  dropped  her  arms  now,  and  he  could  see 
her  face,  with  eyes  imnaturally  dilated,  and  lips 
quivering.  Then  moved  again  beyond  control,  he 
drew  her  so  close  that  he  could  feel  the  throbbing 
of  her  heart,  and  put  his  Hps  to  her  forehead  all  wet 
with  heat.  She  closed  her  eyes,  gave  a  Httle  choke, 
and  buried  her  face  against  his  coat. 

"There,  there,  my  darhng!"  he  kept  on  saying. 
"There,  there,  my  darling!"  He  could  feel  the 
snuggling  of  her  cheek  against  his  shoulder.  He 
had  got  her — ^had  got  her!  He  was  somehow  cer- 
tain that  she  would  not  draw  back  now.  And  in 
the  wonder  and  ecstasy  of  that  thought,  all  the  world 
above  her  head,  the  stars  in  their  courses,  the  wood 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  397 

which  had  frightened  her,  seemed  miracles  of  beauty 
and  fitness.  By  such  fortune  as  had  never  come 
to  man,  he  had  got  her!  And  he  murmured  over 
and  over  again : 

"I  love  you!"  She  was  resting  perfectly  quiet 
against  him,  while  her  heart  ceased  gradually  to 
beat  so  fast.  He  could  feel  her  cheek  rubbing  against 
his  coat  of  Harris  tweed.  Suddenly  she  snified  at 
it,  and  whispered : 

"It  smells  good." 


VI 

When  summer  sun  has  burned  all  Egypt,  the 
white  man  looks  eagerly  each  day  for  evening,  whose 
rose-coloured  veil  melts  opalescent  into  the  dun 
drift  of  the  hills,  and  iridescent  above,  into  the  slowly 
deepening  blue.  Pierson  stood  gazing  at  the  mystery 
of  the  desert  from  under  the  Httle  group  of  palms 
and  bougainvillea  which  formed  the  garden  of  the 
hospital.  Even-song  was  in  full  voice:  from  the 
far  wing  a  gramophone  was  grinding  out  a  music- 
hall  song;  two  aeroplanes,  wheeling  exactly  Hke  the 
buzzards  of  the  desert,  were  letting  drip  the  faint 
whir  of  their  flight;  metallic  voices  drifted  from 
the  Arab  village;  the  wheels  of  the  water-wells 
creaked;  and  every  now  and  then  a  dry  rustle  was 
stirred  from  the  palm-leaves  by  puffs  of  desert  wind. 
On  either  hand  an  old  road  ran  out,  whose  line  could 
be  marked  by  the  little  old  watch-towers  of  another 
age.  For  how  many  hundred  years  had  human 
life  passed  along  it  to  East  and  West;  the  brown 
men  and  their  camels,  threading  that  immemorial 
track  over  the  desert,  which  ever  filled  him  with 
wonder,  so  still  it  was,  so  wide,  so  desolate,  and 
every  evening  so  beautiful !  He  sometimes  felt 
that  he  could  sit  for  ever  looking  at  it;  as  though 
its  cruel  mysterious  loveliness  were — ^home;    and 

398 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  399 

yet  he  never  looked  at  it  without  a  spasm  of  home- 
sickness. 

So  far  his  new  work  had  brought  him  no  nearer 
to  the  hearts  of  men.  Or  at  least  he  did  not  feel 
it  had.  Both  at  the  regimental  base,  and  now  in 
this  hospital — an  intermediate  stage — waiting  for 
the  draft  with  which  he  would  be  going  into  Palestine, 
all  had  been  very  nice  to  him,  friendly,  and  as  it 
were  indulgent;  so  might  schoolboys  have  treated 
some  well-intentioned  dreamy  master,  or  business 
men  a  harmless  idealistic  inventor  who  came  visit- 
ing their  offices.  He  had  even  the  feeling  that  they 
were  glad  to  have  him  about,  just  as  they  were  glad 
to  have  their  mascots  and  their  regimental  colours; 
but  of  heart-to-heart  simple  comradeship — ^it  seemed 
they  neither  wanted  it  of  him  nor  expected  him  to 
give  it,  so  that  he  had  a  feehng  that  he  would  be 
forward  and  impertinent  to  offer  it.  Moreover,  he 
no  longer  knew  how.  He  was  very  lonely.  'When 
I  come  face  to  face  with  death,'  he  would  think,  'it 
will  be  different.  Death  makes  us  all  brothers.  I 
may  be  of  real  use  to  them  then.' 

They  brought  him  a  letter  while  he  stood  there 
hstening  to  that  even-song,  gazing  at  the  old  desert 
road. 

"East  Bungalow. 
"Darling  Dad, 

"I  do  hope  this  will  reach  you  before  you  move  on  to 
Palestine.  You  said  in  your  last — at  the  end  of  September, 
so  I  hope  you'lljust  get  it.  There  is  one  great  piece  of  news, 
which  I'm  afraid  will  hurt  and  trouble  you;  Nollie  is  married 
to  Jimmy  Fort.    They  were  married  down  here  this  after- 


400  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

noon,  and  have  Just  gone  up  to  Town.  They  have  to  find 
a  house  of  course.  She  has  been  very  restless,  lonely,  and 
unhappy  ever  since  you  went,  and  I'm  sure  it  is  really  for  the 
best.  She  is  quite  another  creature,  and  simply  devoted, 
headlong.  It's  just  like  Nollie.  She  says  she  didn't  know 
what  she  wanted,  up  to  the  last  minute.  But  now  she  seems 
as  if  she  could  never  want  anything  else. 

"  Dad  dear,  Nollie  could  never  have  made  good  by  herself. 
It  isn't  her  nature,  and  it's  much  better  like  this,  I  feel  sure, 
and  so  does  George.  Of  course  it  isn't  ideal — and  one  wanted 
that  for  her;  but  she  did  break  her  wing,  and  he  is  so  awfully 
good  and  devoted  to  her,  though  you  didn't  believe  it,  and 
perhaps  won't,  even  now.  The  great  thing  is  to  feel  her 
happy  again,  and  know  she's  safe.  Nollie  is  capable  of  great 
devotion;  only  she  must  be  anchored.  She  was  drifting  all 
about;  and  one  doesn't  know  what  she  might  have  done, 
in  one  of  her  moods.  I  do  hope  you  won't  grieve  about  it. 
She's  dreadfully  anxious  about  how  you'll  feel.  I  know  it 
will  be  wretched  for  you,  so  far  off;  but  do  try  and  believe 
it's  for  the  best. . . .  She's  out  of  danger;  and  she  was  really  in 
a  horrible  position.  It's  so  good  for  the  baby,  too,  and  only 
fair  to  him.  I  do  think  one  must  take  things  as  they  are. 
Dad  dear.  It  was  impossible  to  mend  NoUie's  wing.  If 
she  were  a  fighter,  and  gloried  in  it,  or  if  she  were  the  sort 
who  would  'take  the  veil' — but  she  isn't  either.  So  it  is 
all  right.  Dad.  She's  writing  to  you  herself.  I'm  sure  Leila 
didn't  want  Jimmy  Fort  to  be  unhappy  because  he  couldn't 
love  her;  or  she  would  never  have  gone  away.  George  sends 
you  his  love;  we  are  both  very  well.  And  Nollie  is  looking 
splendid  still,  after  her  harvest  work.  All,  all  my  love. 
Dad  dear.  Is  there  anything  we  can  get,  and  send  you? 
Do  take  care  of  your  blessed  self,  and  don't  grieve  about 
NoUie. 

"Gratl\n." 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  401 

A  half-sheet  of  paper  fluttered  down;  he  picked 
it  up  from  among  the  parched  fibre  of  dead  palm- 
leaves. 

**  Daddy  darling, 
"I've  done  it.    Forgive  me — I'm  so  happy. 

"Your  NoLLiE." 

The  desert  shimmered,  the  palm-leaves  rustled, 
and  Pierson  stood  trying  to  master  the  emotion 
roused  in  him  by  those  two  letters.  He  felt  no  anger, 
not  even  vexation;  he  felt  no  sorrow,  but  a  lonehness 
so  utter  and  complete  that  he  did  not  know  how  to 
bear  it.  It  seemed  as  if  some  last  Hnk  with  life  had 
snapped.  'My  girls  are  happy,'  he  thought.  'If 
I  am  not — ^what  does  it  matter?  If  my  faith  and 
my  convictions  mean  nothing  to  them — ^why  should 
they  follow?  I  must  and  will  not  feel  lonely.  I 
ought  to  have  the  sense  of  God  present,  to  feel  His 
hand  in  mine.  If  I  cannot,  what  use  am  I — ^what 
use  to  the  poor  fellows  in  there,  what  use  in  all  the 
world  ? ' 

An  old  native  on  a  donkey  went  by,  piping  a  Sou- 
danese melody  on  a  Httle  wooden  Arab  flute.  Pier- 
son  turned  back  into  the  hospital  humming  it.  A 
nurse  met  him  there. 

"The  poor  boy  at  the  end  of  A  ward  is  sinking 
fast,  sir;  I  expect  he'd  like  to  see  you." 

He  went  into  A  ward,  and  walked  down  between 
the  beds  to  the  west  window  end,  where  two  screens 
had  been  put,  to  block  off  the  cot.  Another  nurse, 
who  was  sitting  beside  it,  rose  at  once. 


402  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

"He's  quite  conscious,"  she  whispered;  "he  can 
still  speak  a  little.  He's  such  a  dear."  A  tear  rolled 
down  her  cheek,  and  she  passed  out  behind  the 
screens.  Pierson  looked  down  at  the  boy;  perhaps 
he  was  twenty,  but  the  unshaven  down  on  his  cheeks 
was  soft  and  almost  colourless.  His  eyes  were  closed. 
He  breathed  regularly,  and  did  not  seem  i^  pain; 
but  there  was  about  him  that  which  told  he  was 
going;  something  resigned,  already  of  the  grave. 
The  window  was  wide  open,  covered  by  mosquito- 
netting,  and  a  tiny  line  of  sunlight,  slanting  through 
across  the  foot  of  the  cot,  crept  slowly  backwards 
over  the  sheets  and  the  boy's  body,  shortening  as 
it  crept.  In  the  grey  whiteness  of  the  walls,  the 
bed,  the  boy's  face,  just  that  pale  yellow  bar  of  sun- 
light, and  one  splash  of  red  and  blue  from  a  Httle 
flag  on  the  wall  glowed  out.  At  this  cooler  hour, 
the  ward  behind  the  screens  was  almost  empty,  and 
few  sounds  broke  the  stiUness;  but  from  without 
came  that  intermittent  rustle  of  dry  palm-leaves. 
Pierson  waited  in  silence,  watching  the  sun  sink. 
If  the  boy  might  pass  like  this,  it  would  be  God's 
mercy.  Then  he  saw  the  boy's  eyes  open,  wonder- 
fully clear  eyes  of  the  lighted  grey  which  has  dark 
rims;  his  lips  moved,  and  Pierson  bent  down  to 
hear. 

"I'm  goin'  West,  zurr."  The  whisper  had  a  httle 
soft  burr;  the  lips  quivered;  a  pucker  as  of  a  child 
formed  on  his  face,  and  passed. 

Through  Pierson's  mind  there  flashed  the  thought : 
*  0  God !    Let  me  be  some  help  to  him ! ' 


SAINT'S  PROGRESS  403 

"To  God,  my  dear  son !"  he  said. 

A  flicker  of  humour,  of  ironic  question,  passed 
over  the  boy's  lips. 

Terribly  moved,  Pierson  knelt  down,  and  began 
softly,  fervently  praying.  His  whispering  mingled 
with  the  rustle  of  the  palm-leaves,  while  the  bar  of 
sunlight  crept  up  the  body.  In  the  boy's  smile  had 
been  the  whole  of  stoic  doubt,  of  stoic  acquiescence. 
It  had  met  him  with  an  unconscious  challenge;  had 
seemed  to  know  so  much.  Pierson  took  his  hand, 
which  lay  outside  the  sheet.  The  boy's  lips  moved, 
as  though  in  thanks;  he  drew  a  long  feeble  breath, 
as  if  to  suck  in  the  thread  of  sunhght;  and  his 
eyes  closed.  Pierson  bent  over  the  hand.  When 
he  looked  up  the  boy  was  dead.  He  kissed  his  fore- 
head and  went  quietly  out. 

The  sun  had  set,  and  he  walked  away  from  the 
hospital  to  a  hillock  beyond  the  track  on  the  desert's 
edge,  and  stood  looking  at  the  afterglow.  The  sun 
and  the  boy — together  they  had  gone  West,  into 
that  wide  glowing  nothingness. 

The  muezzin  call  to  sunset  prayer  in  the  Arab 
village  came  to  him  clear  and  sharp,  while  he  sat 
there,  unutterably  lonely.  Why  had  that  smile 
so  moved  him?  Other  death  smiles  had  been  like 
this  evening  smile  on  the  desert  hills — a  glowing 
peace,  a  promise  of  heaven.  But  the  boy's  smile 
had  said:  'Waste  no  breath  on  me — you  cannot 
help.  Who  knows — who  knows?  I  have  no  hope, 
no  faith;  but  I  am  adventuring.  Good-bye!'  Poor 
boy!     He  had  braved  all  things,  and  moved  out 


404  SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

uncertain,  yet  undaunted!  Was  that,  then,  the 
uttermost  truth,  was  faith  a  smaller  thing?  But 
from  that  strange  notion  he  recoiled  with  horror. 
'In  faith  I  have  lived,  in  faith  I  will  die !'  he  thought, 
'God  helping  me!'  And  the  breeze,  ruffling  the 
desert  sand,  blew  the  grains  against  the  palms  of 
his  hands,  outstretched  above  the  warm  earth. 


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